


Fanning Moonbeams

by Lenti



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternative Universe - Early Modern Period, Alternative Universe - Medieval England, Bloodletting, F/M, Forests, May Day Festival, Period Typical Attitudes, Thestrals, Walpurgis Night - Freeform, Werewolves, Witch Trials
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenti/pseuds/Lenti
Summary: She doesn’t believe that the love of her life is truly dead. He just needs to clear the forest. She's lived her entire life in a town where people are born and buried without ever leaving the valley. Witches and religious heretics are put to death and burned at the stake. When he arrives in town, her days of hiding in plain sight are numbered.





	1. Chapter 1

Hannah Abbott lurched violently from the wooden post, her desperate movements blunted by the layers of thick rope tightened around her body. The fire had already engulfed her upper torso and was creeping up to lick at her pale face and long fair hair. When the fire had been first making its way up her calves and thighs, she had been screaming for God and mercy. But as the flames crept higher, her wailing and shrieking had became less and less coherent, devolving to piercing and basic. She simply screamed to vocalise her pain. It was all she could do.

If the screaming wasn’t enough, the smell of burning flesh and fat had begun to permeate the air. However, no one else in the crowd seemed to notice the stench or mind it. After long weeks of trial and torture, the townspeople were simply glad to be moving on after Abbott’s confession was finally extracted. Even if the girl had refused to name any additional witches.

Hermione would have turned away from the gruesome display but her father’s harsh grip on her shoulder warned her against doing so. Her mother stood at her other shoulder, watching intently, without expression.

It was important for Hermione to attend these witch-burnings to dispel any rumours of sympathies or allegiances to the accused witches.

But Hannah Abbott hadn’t been a witch. Hermione was almost thoroughly certain of that fact. She would have discovered the Abbott girl sooner if the accusations had been true.

When the shrieking had finally faded and the soft crackling of the fire became audible, most of the onlookers began to disperse from the cobble square. But it would be hours before the fire died out. Only a scattering of bone fragments would remain.

Her father returned to his practice, squeezing her shoulder in farewell, and her mother returned to the family hearth. She would be home too before long, before dusk, but until then Hermione was found by the two youngest of the Weasley children. Ron and Ginevra, had shirked their daily duties to sneak out of their father’s inn and watch the burning of a girl they had known since their youth. Hermione didn’t understand it, but she knew that she was the irregularity, not they.

“Have you visited the marketplace today?” Ginny asked her, clutching at her arm and looping her own through it. The girl was wearing a new cloak, the hood trimmed with russet red fur. Her free hand traced the collar of her cloak, to entice Hermione’s attention.

“No, I haven’t.” Hermione humoured her, “Is that new?” She nodded towards the article of clothing, humming in admiration. “How did you afford that?” The spring had brought with it rain and good business throughout their town, and Ginny was the only girl in her family, but nevertheless she was still only one child in a litter of seven.

“It was a gift,” Ginny beamed.

That generous revelation brought Hermione’s eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

“I told her she shouldn’t have accepted it,” Ron cut in, his freckled face scrunched. It made for an unattractive look.

Ginny had started leading Hermione by the arm, while Ron paved a walking path through the thick marketplace crowd. It was the business hour of the day; the spring sun stood high in the sky. The air was much cooler away from the fire. Many of those who had been in the audience of the witch burning now stood around the various stands and shops, browsing the crafted products and fresh produce of the spring harvest, holding their children’s hands and haggling with vendors. It all made for a quaint sight. But Hermione knew better.

“A traveler bought up one of the rooms,” Ron went on to elaborate. “I really don’t know what sort of merchant travels so lightly, but he’s already made a nice profit off people like my sister.”

“I didn’t pay anything,” Ginny insisted, tugging hard at Hermione’s arm in protest as if it were Ron’s.

“That’s what you think,” Ron snorted. “But anyways - ” he peered at Hermione from over his shoulder. “ - Dad felt so bad about it that he’s letting the man board without charge for the rest of his stay.” He scratched his head with a shrug.

Mister Weasley really was a bleeding heart. “That man’s going to bankrupt your dad,” Hermione commented dryly. She ignored the look of betrayal on Ginny’s face. It was of no consequence because the girl recovered quickly anyways.

“Tom!” Ginny suddenly slipped loose from them, hurrying ahead towards a new merchant stand. “Busy day, huh?” There was a sweet laugh in her voice. Her pale eyebrows had softened, a helpless smile at her mouth.

There was a young man standing behind the wooden stall, with various beautiful artifacts and luxury goods assorted across his table. But all eyes were immediately drawn towards Tom and his fair skin, dark hair, and darker eyes. Hermione had never seen such dark brown eyes; they seemed impossibly black, smudges of ink on clean, white parchment. He was tall too, even taller than Ron but had a graceful and lean build.

And he wasn’t alone. Lavender Brown, Susan Bones, and Megan Jones were hovering around his stand. Lavender Brown immediately broke away from the group of girls to take Ron’s hands in enthusiastic greeting, while Bones and Jones looked on Ginny with disdainful eyes. Just last week, the four girls were practically inseparable, attached at the hips, always visiting the marketplace or doing laundry together.

“Yes, I’ve unloaded quite a bit,” Tom answered modestly. A half-smile played at his slight mouth. He was pleasant and affable, but something about him struck Hermione as dull. He seemed like a doll, his hair and clothes neatly arranged and his face drawn perpetually smiling. He didn’t even look her way once.

“I really love the cloak,” Ginny continued, her long fingers playing with the ends. She really did look pretty. She must have worked herself up into a frenzy over looking good for him. Her red hair glowed with a sheen like fire, brushed unrelentingly sleek. Bones and Jones must have known that.

They’re both also dressed up, in dresses fine enough for Sunday. Bones’ bright red hair was missing its usual plait; she’s gone for a new look, her long hair left free to simply run down her back. Going for the opposite effect, Jones’ hair has been parted into two intricate braids.

“So Tom,” Jones spoke up, drawing his dark eyes back onto her. “I really love the pendant.” She was holding the metallic string up in the air, weighed down by a beautiful opal stone - shimmering white with countless flecks of prismatic colours. “Where did you say this came from again?”

“France.” He’s travelled quite a lot apparently. Or at least his wares have. “It used to belong to a beautiful baroness.” A scatter of giggles erupted from the girls. Megan’s pressed the pendant against the corner of her mouth, her brown eyes opened a little too widely.

Openly bored, Ron’s mouth twisted into an expression of disgust. Hermione couldn’t help but sympathise. But the other girls hung onto Tom’s every word, almost physically leaning in. Hermione didn’t even remember why Ginny had insisted on her accompanying her and her brother to the market when it seemed that Ginny has since completely forgotten about her. “How ever did the pendant come to you?” Hermione wondered wryly aloud.

His eyes had finally turned onto her. “The baroness became bankrupt after her husband was disgraced, stripped of his title, and thrown out the French court,” Tom answered pleasantly. His smile didn’t seem very appropriate for the story of misfortune.

“Oh, how terrible,” Bones expressed empathetically with a sigh. She looked as if she was only barely restraining herself from reaching out to touch Tom in comfort, as if he was the baroness herself fallen on hard times.

“Right,” Ron voiced impatiently. “Ginny, we need to get going. Fred and George would have ratted us out to Mom and Dad by now.” That was a lie. Fred and George were opposed to all forms of authority figures; even they wouldn’t betray their younger siblings to their parents. “Lavender, Mom wants you to come over for dinner tonight, is that alright?”

While Lavender vocalised her eager agreement, Hermione seized the opportunity to excuse herself politely. “I have to be getting home too. It was nice meeting you, Tom. Your wares are beautiful.” She hadn’t even introduced herself. “Goodbye,” she added, her brown eyes lingering on the Weasley siblings before she turned to leave. Bones and Jones continued talking to Tom, more enthusiastically now they were alone again.

“It’s been a pleasure,” were Tom’s parting words. The sincerity in his voice was impossible.

The walk back to her home was uneventful. But along the route, Hermione walked past the Dursley family’s butcher shop. She hadn’t stepped inside in years; her mother always went to pick up the meat for their major holidays dinners.

The shop was a modest building, it had once been painted red but the colour had since been reduced to the original brown of the wood. The Dursley boy, brawny and red-faced, saw her through the front entrance. He was hoisting up a large slab of pork for the display. They didn’t exchange a greeting, not even in a meaningful look, and neither acknowledged seeing the other, but the silent exchange sat at the back of Hermione’s mind even after she passed the threshold of the front door and entered her home.

“Hermione, come into the kitchen,” her mother called.

She went on to help with what little remained to be done with the house chores, and soon the dinner table was set with plates, cutlery, and food. Her father returned home shortly after, complaining about Augusta Longbottom and her disagreeable temper. He washed up, cleansing away the flecks of blood that still clung to his arms.

The Grangers all sat down to dinner together and discussed the notable events of the day: her father’s patients, her mother’s stew, and the new merchant in town. Her mother even noted what a handsome young man he was.

When they had all finished dinner, Hermione helped her mother clean up, slowed down by the tiresome manual work. By the time the crickets began singing, it was time to retire to bed.

Briefly seeing her father in the family den, with an open book by the fireplace, Hermione went up the stairs and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. There was a hard grey bed in the centre of the room and a small, bare bedside table beside it. It was all very Spartan. Setting down the lantern she had carried up to her room on the wooden dresser by the door, Hermione slipped out of her day clothes and into her nightwear. Tiredly falling down onto her bed, she looked across the room at the still-lit lantern. After a few seconds of focused staring, the lantern light helpfully flickered out of life and she turned over in her bed, pulling her coarse blanket around herself. Tomorrow would probably be much the same.


	2. Chapter 2

“Take one dose each night before bed and another each morning.”

Hermione laid the basket containing herbal medicine down on the old woman’s bedside beside a vase of faded flowers, old and limp with age. Augusta Longbottom watched indifferently from the head of her bed, her long grey hair sitting unruly and disheveled around her shoulders.

“I’ll give Neville the same information too,” Hermione added, mouth pursed. She didn’t particularly like Neville’s grandmother any more than her father did.

With hardly even a sound to dismiss her, the old woman shut her eyes to resume the midday nap Hermione must have interrupted. It was on par to her typical behaviour.

Holding back a sigh, Hermione’s fingers idly brushed against the flowers sitting in the vase. Imperceptibly, pigments of colour slowly began to seep back into the pale petals. If it wasn’t for the knowledge that Augusta would never notice the prolonged life of her flowers - she didn’t care to notice most things - Hermione would have never done it.

Leaving the room and shutting the door behind her, Hermione descended the creaky steps of the Longbottom home. It was one of the finer, older houses in town. Not too long ago, Hannah Abbott had been employed to keep it neat and tidy while the Longbottom grandson cobbled shoes for a living by day.

What had Abbott done to bring Augusta’s rage down on her? She had been Augusta’s longtime caretaker even before she had become bed-bound, and yet it had been Augusta who levelled the accusations of witchcraft against the girl, citing an unholy pact with the devil as the cause of her increasingly failing health. And stranger still, Hermione had not seen either Longbottom at the witch-burning of a few days ago. Augusta was bedridden, but Neville had been fond of the girl.

Already there was dust accumulating in the empty spaces, on the railing, in the corners, and on the furniture. The Longbottoms were a highly esteemed family with old wealth and despite their recent decline after the deaths of Frank and Alice Longbottom, Augusta had thoroughly demonstrated the weight her late husband’s name still carried in the town with the charges and conviction of Hannah Abbott.

Neville was in the sitting room, not sitting, his broad shoulders slumped against the wall. He blinked quickly at the sight of her, becoming alert. “Hey.” He left his slouch across the wall to walk over to her.

“I left the medicine to supplement the bloodletting on the table in your grandmother’s room. Expect my father in about three days; he’ll want to check your grandmother’s progress.” Hermione’s voice was gentle, slow, her hand resting on the wooden knob at the end of the staircase railing.

“Thank you, Hermione.” Neville managed a small smile. Growing up, Hermione had never been as close to Neville the way she was to the two youngest Weasley children, or like she had grown to be to Harry in her adolescence, but Hermione had always considered Neville a loyal friend despite his timid nature. And he had grown to be a good man who’s quiet and modest character was often overshadowed by bolder and more domineering figures.

There had been many past instances where she and her friends had had to interfere when the mayor’s son and his cronies had started giving Neville trouble, or when Harry’s cousin and his childhood gang had made Neville one of their targets. The orphan boy had endured it all, never voicing a single complaint to his grandmother. Augusta was already fiercely protective as it was.

“Ron says you haven’t come over for a game of chess in quite a while,” Hermione ventured. When Neville doesn’t offer a word, mouth twitching anxiously, she continued. A sorry smile had grown on her face. “We all miss having you around, Neville.”

“Huh,” Neville rubbed the knuckle of his hand over his right brow. “Well recently, it’s been tough with my grandmother, how she is, you know. I haven’t had much time for leisure lately.”

It sounded like an excuse. Augusta had been bedridden and frail for years. But it was true that Abbott was no longer around to ease the burden.

“But I’ll definitely come by soon,” Neville promised cautiously. “Tell Ron and his family I’m grateful for their concern.” A polite smile reappearing on his mouth, he began walking towards the door, opening it quickly. “Do you need me to walk you home, Hermione?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Hermione stepped down from the final step of the staircase. “But thank you, Neville.” She tried to find his eyes, but he seemed to be looking anywhere but directly back.

Silently waving a hand in goodbye, Hermione stepped outside the house, and the door quickly closed behind her. Only sparing the closed door another pursed-mouth glance, Hermione began the walk home. It was not a very far walk to warrant an escort and it cut through the marketplace, but she wasn’t much in the mood for socialising. Although, Hermione had the grace to spare a smile for Seamus Finnigan when the cheerful boy passed her on the dirt path.

She continued to walk undisturbed until a new voice called out behind her. “Hermione!” It was Cormac McLaggen. She knew immediately. She feigned oblivion, but loud footsteps sounded behind her, and suddenly his heavy hand had settled over her shoulder. He physically turned her around to face him, a broad smile on his face as he peered imposingly down at her. “You didn’t hear me calling your name?”

“Oh,” Hermione disguised a grimace with a tight smile. “I’m sorry I must have been daydreaming again.” She spied a freshly hunted rabbit in his free hand. The brown creature hung limply from its hind legs in his loose grasp. It was a surprisingly clean kill.

“You can’t live with your head in the clouds, Hermione,” Cormac laughed, the rumbling sound deep from his throat. “You’re going to miss all of the important things going on right before your eyes.”

“Right.” She was looking for the point of this conversation.

Cormac must have at least sensed her growing impatience because he quickly lifted the rabbit. “I caught this fresh in a trap this morning.” He tried to push it into her hands. “I thought your family might like it. It’s a big one, fat on spring grass.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“Oh c’mon, you’d be doing me a favour. I’m sick of rabbit anyway.” Cormac laughed again.

She was still shaking her head when a new voice suddenly joined their dialogue, smooth and confident. “That’s from the forest?” Tom appeared beside Hermione. He did not look even briefly at the rabbit but directly at Cormac.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t very subtle when Cormac’s shoulders suddenly straightened out and his chest seemed to puff out, reminiscent of a preening bird. “I hunted it.”

“You go into the forest often?” Again, Tom didn’t seem to have noticed Hermione, despite the fact that their shoulders were nearly brushing. The near physical contact had her shifting a step away.

“Often enough. Why?” Cormac smiled, but there was a mocking quality to the turn of his mouth. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who subscribed to the notion of there being “no such thing as a silly question”.

“Oh, I’m just curious,” Tom shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve explored much of the town but I haven’t looked into the forest yet.”

“Well, it’s not really the place for sightseeing.” Cormac’s face grew pink. Tom’s lack of fear for the forest - a trait typical of most of the townspeople - was unappreciated. Cormac’s frequent ventures into the forest were his most popular pub stories. Even Ron liked to listen in, despite how often he labelled Cormac a ‘prat’ out of earshot. “A boy died up there a few years ago. I was there, I saw it.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Hermione interrupted suddenly, drawing surprised looks from both men. Even Cormac must have forgotten she was there, as incensed as he was with Tom’s intrusion. It also probably didn’t help that Tom’s effortless popularity with the female population was already well-known. “His body was never found.”

“I don’t need to see the body to know that he’s a goner,” Cormac scoffed, looking confused and red. “It’d have taken a miracle for him to have survived something like that. Besides, he really had no business in coming with us - it was his first time even holding a spear.”

She had tried her best to come off as detached and purely informative (for the sake of setting the record straight), but Cormac’s insistence stirred up an old anger in Hermione. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have left him behind to die,” she snapped coldly. Ignoring Tom, she gave Cormac one last withering look before storming off.

“Hermione - ”

“Don’t.”

She didn’t look back once as she stalked off, but Hermione could hear the slightest footsteps starting to trail after her. She knew she only had more angry words and possibly a slap or two so she ignored her shadow.

A few minutes had passed when he had grown tired of the silent game. “Hermione.” The voice wasn’t Cormac’s.

It was enough of a start to give her pause, and that gave him the opportunity to languidly catch up to her and pass her, turning around to face her. “Hey.” An apologetic look had softened Tom’s handsome features. “I hate what happened back there. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” She stared at him in disbelief. It was between her and Cormac. “You don’t have to take responsibility. You had no part in that.”

“Oh, but I feel like I should.” There was such a look of guilt written into his furrowed brows. “I hadn’t wanted to see you get upset.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.” Hermione shook her head, still uneasy. “But thanks.” She felt obligated to say that at least.

His face broke into a winning smile; he was just as handsome smiling as when he looked sorry. “That’s a relief.” White teeth biting attractively at his lips - he seemed to be unaware of the powerful effect of such a gesture on him - Tom looked around them. His face lit up with an idea. “Hey, there’s a vendor selling some books right there. Why don’t you pick out a book? On me?”

“I really couldn’t.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione.” Maybe it was in the familiar way he said her name. Or maybe she really did just want that free book. Because without much further prompting, Hermione dazedly found herself trailing after the dark-haired man, who was still really just a stranger whose name she just happened to know and one who had happened to have found out hers and the fact that she likes books. She would hate to admit it aloud or privately to even herself, but the sudden attention was flattering when he had barely batted an eye at her during their first meeting and the first half of their second.

The process of printing books was still a relatively new technology, and books were generally rare and pricey, luxury items for the middle and upper classes. The merchant only had three books in his inventory: Malleus Maleficarum, the traditional Christian bible (printed in Latin) and The Canterbury Tales.

It was a fairly obvious choice. “Thanks.” She held the Chaucer text in her hands, fingers rubbing against the hard spine of the book as she looked down at the front cover. She really couldn’t help the gratified smile that tugged at her mouth.

“Of course.” Tom paid the merchant the initial asking price. Haggling seemed beneath his dignity. As he reached out to pay, the black ring on his left hand caught her eye. Oddly enough, unlike the rest of him, Hermione found the ring rather ugly on Tom’s fingers - the black stone reflected little light and the band of the ring, despite seeming to be gold, looked bulky and clumsily crafted. The coins released from his pale hand glittered from shimmering gold to duller colours and back again. The merchant happily accepted the payment all the same. She didn’t comment on the visual oddity. In all the time she knew him, Tom had been incredibly generous to everyone he had came across. It felt a little too good to be true, even now.

They continued walking again, this time side by side. Tom had insisted on escorting her back to her house; it was on his way back to the inn. Hermione really couldn’t refuse his gesture at this point.

At her prompting, they ended up discussing about his lengthy travels. As she had suspected, he had sent some short time abroad on the continent. Tom mentioned something about being orphaned at an early age and spending some time in an orphanage before being taken in by an uncle who also happened to be in the business of trade. He didn’t give much additional details and Hermione didn’t particularly care to ask for them either way.

“That boy you mentioned before - ” Tom was putting his feelers out. “ - what happened there exactly?”

Hermione held the new book close to her chest. He could hear the story from her, or Ginny would be just as happy to tell him just the same information.

“His name was Harry Potter,” she recalled grimly. “He went hunting with Cormac McLaggen - you already know him - and the butcher’s son, Dudley Dursley. I wasn’t there, I don’t really know all the details but what Dursley and McLaggen reported. But they were attacked by a beast. McLaggen thinks it was the wild boar they were tracking, but Dursley always claimed that it was something else - not any sort of creature we’ve ever seen or heard of. But no one knows for certain because they all scattered in the confusion. McLaggen and Dursley came home safely and that was that.” There was a bitter edge in her voice and she made no effort to conceal it.

She wanted Tom, anyone, to understand the injustice and feel it as strongly as she did. Ginny hadn’t even wept (although on principle, Ginny was never very teary to begin with), and even Ron’s anger hadn’t nearly matched hers adequately. Maybe it wasn’t fair of her to judge how they grieved, but what had happened to Harry wasn’t very fair either.

“No one looked for him?” Tom caught the bitter note.

“Not well enough.” Not to her satisfaction. She hadn’t been allowed to join the search party herself; her parents had forbidden her and some of the men had outrightly laughed at her and Ginny for even suggesting the idea. “Arthur Weasley went out with his sons and some other volunteers and formed a search party. Only McLaggen went with them - because Dursley’s mother put her foot down - but there wasn’t even so much as a speck of blood found.” Anything could have happened. Death wasn’t the only logical conclusion. Harry was a lot more capable than any of the townspeople had ever given him credit for. “They gave up shortly after that. They couldn’t keep looking forever.”

“That’s very sad.” It was simple and understated, but it was enough to satisfy Hermione and propel her further.

“And then, Harry’s aunt, Mrs. Dursley, blamed him for the whole thing, of course.” Hermione was eager to share her anger, her voice quick and sharp. 

Ron had thought it was too dreary to speak of Harry ‘forever and forever’ - but Ron hadn’t known Harry like she had known him. Although, it was also true that for several months after Harry’s disappearance, it was all Hermione occupied herself with, all she talked and thought about. Coincidentally, it was around that same time that Ron became familiar with Ginny’s friend, Lavender Brown. It was a natural development Hermione couldn’t begrudge but nevertheless one that still retained a bit of old hurt.

The next time Hermione had ventured into the forest, Cormac had discovered her only a few feet in. He had been stubbornly insistent in escorting her home, directly to her parents by the arm. He might have thought he was protecting her, but the experience had only been demeaning and further hardened her opinion against him.

“And because Harry didn’t have any real family to advocate for him, the whole incident was swept under the rug.” She hoped that last line stuck with him. Someone else should care. And, in a way, Tom was an outsider like Harry too. Even if Tom didn’t associate with witchcraft or other criminal activities, and was still relatively well-liked and popular with the townspeople, travelers like Tom would always be regarded with a degree of suspicion by the small town and the others like it throughout the British isles.

But Tom’s face remained much the same: still expressively empathetic and still very handsome. But for whatever reason, Tom’s perfect reactions and active listening now rubbed her the wrong way.

“Good night, Tom.” She arrived at her doorstep.

“Good night, Hermione Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've set the number of chapters to twenty-one chapters since that's what I have outlined and planned. But that might be subject to change in the future. As always, I appreciate reviews and welcome constructive criticism.


	3. Chapter 3

To read that all a woman desired was sovereignty over her husbands and lovers was not something Hermione knew to be truth or fiction. Even so, the Wife of Bath herself wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue. Her “moral story” left Hermione feeling rather ambivalent and jaded.

“Where did you get that?”

Ginny stood in front of her, holding her niece’s hand in one hand and a small woven basket in the other. She peered down at Hermione in her seat at the base of the oak tree, _The Canterbury Tales_ opened on her lap. 

After reading through _The General Prologue_ , she had skipped throughout the book, starting with _The Wife of Bath’s Tale_. “It was a gift.”

Ginny’s brown eyes looked on flatly. “A gift from Tom.”

“Yeah,” Hermione admitted, strangely guilty and annoyed for feeling that way. Trying to move past the book, she turned her attention onto the little girl clutching Ginny’s hand, smiling sweetly. “Hi, Victoire.”

The young girl was already blonde and beautiful, a sure heartbreaker given a few years if she was going to be anything like her French-born mother. “Hi, Hermione,” the girl greeted her, voice childish and high.

“What are you and Aunt Ginny up to today?” Hermione shut the book close.

“We’re gonna have a picnic with you.” Victoire was all too happy to inform her. With a tug on her aunt’s arm, she suddenly plopped down onto the grass, her stubby fingers reaching out to pull at the wildflowers growing around them.

“Mum asked Fred and George to come too, but they couldn’t be bothered,” Ginny informed her, mouth curved upwards in a caricature of a smile. “So it’s just us two for you.”

“Oh.” Hermione blinked. Patting the empty space beside her to prompt Ginny to sit down, she set the book aside, behind her and out of view, as Ginny joined them on the lush green grass. “Your mum packed all of this? That was awfully sweet of her.” She had always liked the Weasley matriarch.

“Yeah.” Ginny opened up the basket, pulling out biscuits and cheese wrapped in white cloth. “She was really sorry when she finally accepted that you and Ron weren’t ever going to be together - although she does love Lavender, of course. So I guess she’s trying to pass you onto Fred or George now,” Ginny speculated offhandedly. Like Hermione, Ginny hadn’t ever taken her mother’s mother’s matchmaking machinations very seriously and the idea hadn’t grown on her with time any more than it had for Hermione.

“Oh - well you already know how I feel about that,” Hermione tried to laugh, accepting a dry biscuit offered to her by Ginny. She adored the Weasleys and appreciated Molly’s well-meaning efforts to recruit her as another daughter-in-law, but Fred and George weren’t exactly even thoughts in her mind when it came to the prospect of marriage. She was sure both twins felt much the same way.

“You don’t like Uncle Fred or Uncle George?” Victoire followed the conversation more closely than expected for a girl of her age. She nibbled on a thin slice of cheese, inquisitive blue eyes bright.

“I do like them,” Hermione protested. “Just as friends. They’re very nice, fine men. Any girl would be lucky to have either one of them.”

“Besides,” Ginny sniffed. “You have to consider Fred’s and George’s feelings on the matter. It’s not exactly like they put Grandma Molly up to this, Victorie.”

“Marriage isn’t really something I’m looking for right now, anyways,” Hermione tried to clarify. Ginny’s underlying jealousy might have been lost on Victoire but it was entirely too difficult for Hermione to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Ginny was her best friend, but the younger girl had a spiteful side. Hermione usually found her sardonic commentaries and observations amusing, but now she had become the target of ire. Usually Ginny’s biting wit was reserved for boys like Draco Malfoy or girls like Pansy Parkinson and (once upon a time) Fleur ‘Phlegm’ Delacour.

“Then when? Our days as old maids are coming up fast, Hermione.” There really was no pleasing Ginny when her temper had been roused - and it was a light sleeper.

Hermione laughed wryly, frustrated. “Then who should I marry, Ginny?” she asked her friend directly.

Ginny’s cheeks flushed. On her aunt’s behalf, Victoire exclaimed excitedly, “Uncle Fred!”

“Why Uncle Fred?” Hermione humoured her.

“He’s oldest!” The answer came just as quickly.

“But Uncle Charlie’s not married either,” Hermione pointed out.

“What?” Ginny suddenly spoke up, looking a little more at ease, more normal again. “Do you want to marry my other brother too?” Maybe she had realised how irrational her envy and suspicions were.

“No,” Hermione assured her, dragging out the word. “No offence to your brother, of course.”

Victoire giggled. Both women tried to move on from the earlier tension. Hermione was Ginny’s best friend too.

They turned to gossip. Ron had been thinking of proposing to Lavender sometime in the coming weeks. Percy’s new bride, Audrey, was pregnant - the family all hoped for a boy. Fleur was pregnant again for the third time - after two daughters it surely had to be a boy this time. Soon Charlie was coming home from his mercenary work abroad. And of course, the upcoming May Day festivities.

“Do you think I actually might have a chance at being May Queen this year?” Ginny’s nose was wrinkled in modest doubt, but the wish in her brown eyes was clear.

“Last year it was Katie Bell,” Hermione recalled. She was a girl of average means and a pretty face. She didn’t have Ginny beaten. “I’d say you have a good shot. Don’t think too much about it. It’s just a title - for one day in one year.”

Inevitably, the topic of conversation eventually turned to Tom, the silent specter hanging heavy over most of their exchange.

“Do you think he’ll stay in town for May Day?” There was a heartbreaking hope in Ginny’s simple wondering. “He’s told Dad that he’s leaving town soon.”

“I don’t know.” Victoire had long dozed off, curled up against Ginny’s legs. Her deafness enabled Ginny to comfortably confide in Hermione. She certainly couldn’t trust any other girl in town when it came to Tom, nothing like the likes of Jones or Bones. Tom brought out the worst in people.

“He’s so modest, Hermione,” Ginny sighed wistfully. “I don’t think Tom even knows how handsome he is. Or how much I like him. Or how much all the other girls like him.” Shaking her head, her brown eyes flickered back up at Hermione. “But you don’t like him, right?”

“He’s alright,” Hermione tried for diplomacy, a middle ground. “But no, not particularly.” She saw Tom in her mind’s eye: dark and handsome.

“Is this because of Harry?” The question shocked Hermione out of her reverie. Ginny’s expression suddenly morphed into one of concern. “I really don’t think it’s healthy for you to cling to his memory like this.” It seemed that Hermione truly was the only person left in town with any faith in Harry Potter. “You know McLaggen really fancies you. He’s not bad looking and his dad’s well-off; I really don’t understand how you can’t have anything nice to say about him.” At Hermione’s skeptical look, Ginny rectified her comment. “Well, I know why. But it’s really not fair to him, you know? It’s not like he killed Harry. It was an animal attack. A freak accident. No one could have seen it coming.”

“Harry was your friend,” Hermione reminded her quietly. And there had been a time when Ginny had pined after Harry like she did for Tom now. A long-ago time when Ginny had hardly been able to even look at or speak to Harry directly. “How can you not care about him anymore?”

“I do care,” Ginny insisted, her light brows furrowing. “That’s not fair of you to say I don’t. You’re misunderstanding me, Hermione.” The bitter hurt in her eyes made Hermione feel terribly sorry for having accused her. Ginny’s head shook in frustration, vibrant red hair swaying around her freckled face. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be stuck on him like this. You have a life you need to start living.”

“I don’t need to get married to do that.”

“You know that’s not what I said.” She insisted on the word, _‘know’_ , the emphasis annoying because it was true. And that’s that, the end of their heated conversation, because Victoire soon stirred from Ginny’s legs and the red, rosy look on her cheeks implied that the nap had only put her in a cantankerous mood.

“I’m going to take her home,” Ginny murmured softly. She reached out to lift up Victoire from under her arms. “I’ll talk to you later, Hermione.” Her brown eyes were cautious when she met Hermione’s gaze. Ginny didn’t want to argue anymore than Hermione did. This reprieve had probably come at a fortunate time.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll see you later.” Hermione remained in her seat between the thick roots of the oak tree, watching dimly as Ginny carried her niece away, the empty basket in hand. She continued to watch as their figures became more and more like distant shapes before disappearing entirely from view, retreating back behind the line of houses on the periphery of town. Once she was fully alone again, Hermione picked up the book and placed it back on its original spot in her lap. Her fingers traced the lines of printed words but she found that she was unable to fully follow the story’s progression. She simply wasn’t in the mood for book reading anymore.

Closing the book defeatedly, Hermione looked around her. She sat in the meadow, a few trees scattered here and there, between the town and the forest. In the distance, on the horizon, were a small number of brown and black cattle grazing in the open stretch of green, presumably belonging to the Jones family. On the stretch of land opposite the row of houses that marked human settlement stood a long line of tall trees, the entrance to the forest.

Very few of the townspeople ever ventured beyond that treeline. Hunters like Cormac McLaggen were rare and few inbetween, and they were always well-seasoned and highly specialised. Even before the Potter incident the townspeople had long known to fear the forest.

There were no small number of children’s bugbears and bugaboos said to be living within the deepest recesses of the forest where the sunlight never penetrated the canopy. Even the adults took those stories seriously in the darkness of nighttime or when they simply stood too physically close to the forest. As if it was possible to be suddenly pulled and plunged into the thickness of the trees.

Her breath stilled. A lone figure had appeared at the edge of town, facing the forest. It shouldn’t have held her attention rapt the way it did, but something compelled her to keep watching. As the figure broke away from the scattering of houses, its face was no longer concealed and she saw that it was Tom. It was difficult to judge his expression from her distance, but from the way he held himself Hermione could see that he was surveying the trees very intently. He didn’t seem to have noticed her, peeking out from the trunk of her tree, his attention solely fixed on the forest. Empty-handed as far as she could tell, he strode into the trees, walking with a confidence unexpected of someone who had only ever been warned to avoid the forest in the short time he had spent in town.

Despite not knowing what possessed her to do so, Hermione got up, leaning one hand on the tree for support and the other gripping the book tightly. She followed, barely able to make out his distinctive shape through the trees, cutting a diagonal path directly towards him. She hadn’t meant to be spying on him, but nevertheless Hermione took careful care to avoid detection. She mantained several paces between herself and Tom, physically ducking behind trees or bushes whenever it seemed that he might turn around.

But Tom never did. He was picking his way through the trees and thick undergrowth, clearly looking for something and frustrated when it did not immediately present itself to him. Hissing in annoyance, the tall man slowly knelt down on his knees. It was a humbling position she never expected to see him assume and somehow Tom remained looking proud despite it.

Cautiously peeking out from behind a leafy elm with two trunks, Hermione struggled to make out what it was that he was looking at. Minutes of inaction had passed by before she realised there wasn’t anything. Still, he remained there, waiting.

Hermione had about given up on watching and had been trying to figure out how to silently slip away when she heard more hissing. But not from Tom. To her alarm, a black adder had appeared on the scene, purposefully slithering across the forest floor and beating a path directly towards Tom.

Adders were venomous and seldom approached humans. Her heart beating fiercely, Hermione continued to watch, most surprised herself by the great fear she suddenly felt for Tom.

Adders weren’t terribly lethal, but last summer Bathilda Bagshot had died of an adder bite. The woman had been ancient and unfortunate enough to step on the tail of an adder. And here Tom was, actually coaxing the serpent to come closer.

He was hissing back at it. It would have looked ridiculous if it had been anyone else in his position. But it was immediately apparent that the pair were actually communicating. They understood one other. The snake slithered into Tom’s open palm, leaning forward to hiss directly into his ear. What secrets were they sharing?

Straining to make out whatever it was that they were saying, Hermione almost revealed herself in the process before realising the danger of her folly. Quickly drawing back behind the elm tree, just as the snake’s head had turned towards her direction, she remained hidden. Suddenly very frightened at the prospect of sneaking a second look and finding either the snake or Tom staring directly back at her.

Hermione wanted to talk to Tom. But she also imagined that he couldn’t possibly appreciate being followed and spied on. Frantically, her mind began running through all of her possible actions. She could always reveal herself to him later, flee now and continue to watch him until she had judged whether or not he could be trusted. Because even despite her elation at having discovered another wizard, Harry had often warned her of dark wizards. He had known the danger to be real for a dark wizard had orphaned him, providing the catalyst for the circumstances that had brought Harry to her village in the first place.

In the end it didn’t matter though because Tom had crept around the tree, wand drawn at the ready. With a shaky gasp, Hermione could only stare back at him as it registered in her mind that his wand was now pressed directly in the hollow of her throat. The pressure wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t comfortable either. The book he had given her remained tightly clutched at her side.

Tom’s handsome face darkened, twisting into an unsettling expression of anger and murderous intent. It would have made a frightening look on anyone; but to see it on Tom, who had always been so easy with his smiles and almost saintly in nature was particularly jarring. Inanely, dazedly, Hermione couldn’t help but note the sense of familiarity she felt for his wand, currently pressing against her throat. Tom’s and Harry’s wands had clearly been crafted from different materials but the magic emanating from the wood called out to her all the same.

“Wait.” Her voice came out ragged, breathless with fear.

Tom hesitated. He didn’t immediately obliviate her. He didn’t hex her. Maybe it was the look of recognition in her eyes. Maybe it was the fear that she knew to feel for the wand, as if it had been a dagger pointed at her throat instead. Maybe it was simply that he wanted to know why she had followed him. Either way Hermione seized on his indecision to curse her.

“I know what you are,” Hermione expressed fervently. She hadn’t met another since Harry. She had truly begun to believe that she never would, not in this small-minded town of fear and persecution. Where people were born and died without ever even travelling as far as into the forest. Where people were so desperate for a false sense of security that they began seeing enemies in their friends and families. “I’m a witch too. I saw you speaking to that snake,” she explained rapidly, getting straight to the point. If he changed his mind about hearing her out now she was still very unarmed.

“Are you a Parselmouth?” His wand had lowered, easing off her skin, but he had not put it aside.

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “I can’t speak to snakes if that’s what you mean. But I can do magic, not a lot but a little here and there. Harry always said that if I had a proper wand, I could really hold my own against any pure-blood.”

“You’re not a pure-blood.”

“No. He said I was a Muggle-born.” The original fear eased off the more Tom spoke. She felt almost faint with excitement.

He was frowning now, but his eyes had lost their hard edge. She was disappointed by the lack of reciprocity. How many wizards and witches could Tom have already possibly met on his travels? Until Harry she had spent most of her life self-willingly ignorant.

Grimly, Tom looked at the shadowy trees and foliage surrounding them. “Let’s go out into the open. If you’ve been following me this whole time, anyone else could have too. And I’d really prefer to not be blindsided again.” She almost felt guilty at the wry look he casted her way. She was a new liability to his anonymity.

“I know a place, just outside the forest.” But Hermione was still eager to share. She would have liked to keep talking and share what she knew and learn what Tom knew in turn, but he was clearly in no mood to talk. Not now. All of his previous affability seemed to have fled. Stoically, he followed her out of the forest, his wand already concealed by the time they reached the edge of the trees.

Hermione led him out back to the oak tree, the book pressed against her chest again. She would have sat, but Tom looked restless, his dusky eyes cautiously running over the empty space around them several times. But they were alone in the meadow, with only the distant cows and houses witness.

“How did you know I was there?” she asked. She thought she had been discrete.

“How do you think? The snake told me.”

“What were you even talking to it for anyways?” Hermione had always been taught that animals were born and created without souls. What could a snake possibly have to talk about or think of that would interest Tom?

“Not much,” Tom deflected. “It left right after it alerted me to your spying.” Shrugging off whatever apology she was prepared to offer, his voice quietened. “Who else knows about you?” His eyes were narrowed in scrutiny. He was appraising her, she realised with a jolt of offence. He was trying to determine how much of a liability she was. If he might be suddenly regarded with suspicion if he was ever seen publicly talking to her again.

What did a legitimate wizard armed with a wand have to fear from Muggles? Even one good wizard could fend off an entire mob.

She would have bristled in disgust for the fact that self-preservation took precedence over meeting another of his kind, but Hermione could reluctantly acknowledge that the same small quantity of the sense of self-preservation also resided in her. She had always tried to go along with the flow of the town. She had never once spoken up in a word of protest for the witch-burnings. She had distanced herself from girls like Hannah Abbott many times, girls she knew to be only innocents caught up in the politics or vengeance of more powerful Muggles.

“No one,” Hermione assured him. “Harry was the only one to ever recognise my magic. I didn’t even know what I was until I met him” Although, she added as an afterthought, “But my parents always suspected something was off.” It was a wilful ignorance that resided in the Grangers’ household. “They would never expose me though - they keep themselves oblivious.” They loved her.

Exhaling softly, he continued to regard her silently, his handsome face considerate and indiscernible. Tom had always presented himself as a smiling, nice young man, and it was only now that she truly appreciated how difficult it was to read him when he wasn’t already projecting what he wanted the world to see.

But when he finally smiled, Hermione thought that she finally understood Ginny and all of the other girls. She hadn’t even realised when she had started to hold her breath.

“So, Hermione, what do you know about magic?”


	4. Chapter 4

To pass by an open window only to catch the sight of a figure staring back up at her was jarring. “Ginny?” Hermione blinked twice, poking her head out of her bedroom window to confirm that it was, in fact, the youngest Weasley.

“Hermione!” Ginny stood below, waving a hand. The younger girl looked positively ecstatic, her cheeks blushed in delight. “Come down! I have so much to tell you!”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Hermione looked down from her window with furrowed eyebrows. “How long have you been waiting outside?”

“Not very long,” the girl called back in reply. “But please hurry.” Impatience was written all over her body language. Her slender arms had folded themselves against her chest and her left foot was tapping softly against the ground. Nevertheless, she was beaming.

“In a minute,” Hermione repeated, pulling back inside her room. She was excited too. It had been several days since she had followed Tom into the woods, since she had learned what he was and had confided in him a secret she had thought to take with her to the grave. They had begun spending time together, in the late evenings and nights, when Hermione’s daily chores were completed and the town retired to bed.

Tom knew so much about magic and its number of diverse disciplines, much more than Harry had known. As much as she adored Harry, there was a clear skill and knowledge disparity between the two wizards. Even outside the realm of magic, Tom was more sophisticated and intellectual than expected from a man whose day job was essentially that of a middle man. He was well-read and introspective. He thought about big-picture ideas that went beyond the mundane concerns of the townspeople, like putting food on the table or hoarding enough coin to visit the pub.

Someone less enchanted by Tom might have simply called that privilege.

He had slowly given her more details into his background. Witch mother. Muggle father. His mother came from an old line of wizards. His father was the sole heir to a number of lucrative land holdings and estates in the north. That seemed to shed some light on the origin of his funds. Whatever else Tom lacked was supplemented with magic.

When asked if he ever received formal instruction in magic, he had cited a brief tutelage under an old wizard named Dumbledore and alluded to a contentious fallout. Otherwise, he had only ever met a handful of wizards in his lifetime - Hermione, he admitted, was the first witch he had met even remotely close to him in age. And, even if Tom remained aloof by nature, Hermione had picked up on the sense that he was far more forthcoming with her than he had ever been with his admirers in town or any other well-meaning folk.

“What’s gotten you so excited?” Hermione stepped out the doorway of her home. Ginny hadn’t moved from her original spot until she emerged, immediately taking Hermione’s arm and leading her down a path through the town. She placed a red apple into Hermione’s free hand, one of the apples from the grove of trees growing behind the Weasleys’ inn. “Thanks,” Hermione murmured. She bit into the fruit. She hadn’t yet eaten anything that morning. Ginny always seemed to know.

“Dad says Tom’s extended his stay in town,” Ginny shared, breathless with happiness. “Mom adores him, Hermione. She thinks he’s fond of me.” Arthur and Molly were fiercely protective of their one daughter. Tom must have exceeded all expectations for a future son-in-law. It was little wonder that Ginny should be so hopeful now, when her older brothers had chased off potential suitors like Dean Thomas and Michael Corner in the past. “He’s started paying for boarding too and paid all the backcharges. He wouldn’t accept Dad’s refusal. He said that my family was extremely generous, but I guess he was too humble to accept any more.”

Hermione had expressed discomfort upon further learning just how much magic was involved in Tom’s influx of wealth. If he was going to remain in town he should live honestly, she had urged him. She hadn’t really expected that he would listen to her. Whether Tom had truly felt remorseful for abusing his advantages or simply too proud to stand being judged by her, he had given in. She chalked that down as a small victory.

Although she admired Tom much more now than she had when he had only been a charming, mysterious, and generous merchant, Hermione had come to realise that he was hardly as pure-hearted as people made him out to be. In fact, he was positively wicked at times, delighting in teasing her and scandalising her with his callous opinions. Although, some part of Hermione suspected (or hoped) that some of it was done purely for the shock factor. It must have been refreshing for Tom to finally be able to be honest with even one person when much of the rest of his life had been shrouded in pretenses

“Oh,” Hermione said between bites of the fruit. It would be better to not immediately mention that Tom had started working for her father as an assistant, an unofficial apprentice of sorts. His medical knowledge was unexpected and impressive, and that - on top of his classic good looks and winning personality - had won over the Grangers immediately. But Ginny would doubtlessly discover Tom’s new hobby in her own time.

Undiscouraged by Hermione’s lack of response - presumably attributed to her concentration on the apple - Ginny cheerfully continued, “I never felt this way about anyone, Hermione. I think this could really be it.” Sighing, she laid her head gently against her friend’s shoulder. “If he left town and asked me to go with him, I would, I really would.” She laughed scornfully. “The only other men in this town are boys.” It went on much like this for some time, as Ginny continued to wax poetics on Tom’s virtues and qualities.

She even took a reprieve from Tom to deride Bones and Jones. “They visit the inn everyday now, always asking for me. But I can see right through them.” Her eyes rolled in exasperation. But Hermione thought that she saw a little hurt in Ginny too. Bones and Jones had been her friend before, even if they had been closer to Lavender Brown. Even if Ginny wasn’t terribly close to them; having seen their true colours was surely an experience.

Ever since Tom closed up shop, his admirers’ access to him had been severely limited. Bones and Jones looked for him however and wherever they could. And they weren’t his only admirers in town.

“When you talk, Tom listens - he really does. Not like Draco Malfoy who’s actually just thinking of your brothers the entire time you’re together.” Ginny made a face. There had been an incident a few years back when the Malfoy boy had made an attempt to deflower Ginny under the guise of courting her in a sort of star crossed lovers ploy. The convoluted scheme had culminated in a physical and verbal altercation between Malfoy and Ron, a brawl for the sake of honour. Lucius Malfoy would have brought charges against Ron if popular opinion wasn’t so overwhelmingly allied to the Weasley clan. The Malfoy family was wealthy and affluent, but they were more envied and despised by the general populace than anything else. Somehow, Lucius Malfoy was still re-elected mayor with each new term.

“Anyways.” Hermione’s attention slowly returned to the present when she recognised that Ginny was leaving her. “I’m supposed to look over my new dress today, make sure everything’s in order,” Ginny explained. “So I’m going to see Lavender’s mother. I don’t suppose you would like to come with me? You haven’t already bought a dress, have you?”

“My mother’s already made the arrangements,” Hermione answered apologetically. But as much as she adored Ginny, she could only listen to the girl ramble on and on about Tom for so long. You could only say the same thing in so many different words. “I’ll see you, alright?”

“Okay,” Ginny sighed.“I’m just so excited. I’ll be sure to show you the dress as soon as it’s perfect. I can’t wait to see yours either, Hermione.” Waving a hand in goodbye, the red-haired girl soon left, disappearing around the corner.

Only a few seconds soon after: “How long have you two been gossiping about me?”

Hermione turned, not even very surprised to see Tom standing behind her, a black leather bag in his left hand, the golden ring on his middle finger catching her eye. As angry as he had been with her for following him into the forest, Tom had quickly demonstrated that he was far more adept at shadowing others and eavesdropping when he deigned to.

“It was all Ginny,” Hermione defended herself, shrugging. The town’s streets was loud with the day’s business in full swing. Even Tom could speak freely and not be overheard.

“Oh, how do you endure it?” he laughed quietly by her ear, coming to stand familiarly close. They continued down the path, turning around the corner of the bakery. It wasn’t long until Hermione had picked up on the fact that they were walking to the Longbottom home.

“You’re too cruel, you lead her on,” Hermione accused.

“I do not,” he insisted, a slight sneer on his mouth. “I am courteous and polite. She reads too much into my common decency.” It was apparently a common problem for Tom. But as much as he claimed to resent the female attention that constantly and consistently plagued him, Hermione suspected that he was probably also a little gratified. Who didn’t enjoy having their pride boosted so readily and often?

As much as Hermione liked to emphasise inner beauty, childhood insults directed at her bushy hair and teeth still carried an old resentment. She never had the effortless ways of Ginny, beautiful and lively without trying.

“I really don’t know why you defend her so loyally,” he continued, words careless and casual. “You should hear how she talks about you.”

Hermione sighed indifferently, disguising the full extent of her feelings. She knew that she would be simply be giving Tom what he wanted, but her morbid of sense of curiosity pushed her to ask: “What does she say about me?”

“She called you bookish and snobbish,” Tom relayed without missing a beat. “That you have the reputation of a know-it-all, that you’re bound to end up an old maid.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Hermione snapped, face inflamed. She knew she had asked, but nevertheless the revelation still stung. It sounded all too familiar, things that had been said of her and to her too many times before. And partly she still didn’t even trust whether what he was saying now even came from Ginny. Hermione couldn’t definitively put it past Tom to lie just to provoke a reaction. He had the devil-may-care attitude of a man who did whatever caught his fancy, consequences be damned.

“It’s not all bad,” Tom assured her, as if he felt actually sorry for seeing her upset and now sought to make some small amend. She was sure that he wasn’t. “It’s how I knew of your love for literature. Won you over, didn’t I?”

“Oh please,” Hermione scoffed. Wanting to move onto another realm of conversation, she inquired, “Why are we going to the Longbottoms’ house anyways?”

“Bloodletting,” Tom answered shortly. “Your father thinks I have a talent for it.”

“That sounds worrying.”

“It’s a perfectly legitimate service. You of all people should know. Augusta just prefers me.”

“You won over Augusta Longbottom?” Hermione stared at him incredulously. The old woman had never had a kind word or thought for anyone, not even for Hannah Abbott, whom she had grown to despise more and more over time. She was severe with her own grandson whom she loved best since the boy’s father, her only child, had been killed.

“I haven’t bewitched her if that’s what your suspicious mind has turned to,” Tom drawled. His voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Most people simply find me agreeable.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“What’s an understatement?” Both heads turned to look at Cormac McLaggen, standing a few metres ahead in the centre of their path.

“McLaggen,” Tom nodded graciously to the younger man. He didn’t look surprised to see him. “We were on our way to pay a visit to Augusta Longbottom.”

“I didn’t realise you were a doctor.” The two young men weren’t on a first name basis, and Cormac didn’t know Tom’s surname - no one did. He was always simply ‘Tom’. No one ever thought to press Tom for what he wouldn’t freely give.

“I’m not,” Tom shook his head, smiling. But Hermione knew Tom well enough to recognise the glint of cold displeasure in his dark eyes. “I’m merely an assistant.”

Cormac sighed at them, smiling painedly as he shook his head. He looked like he terribly wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words to express his thoughts and feelings. It was all very exasperating.

“We have to get going,” Hermione spoke up. She was unmoved by the look of dashed hope on Cormac’s face. He must have thought that she was still annoyed with him over what he said about Harry. But she wasn’t - not really - she simply had never liked Cormac very much to begin with. At the kindest, they had nothing in common. At the worst, he was totally oblivious of social decorum and never ceased trying to insert himself into her life despite the chilly receptions. “We’ll see you around, McLaggen.”

“So you’re avoiding me now?” She tried weaving around him, only to find him physically stepsiding to block her path. His hurt shifted to anger. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Tom taking a step forward.

Reacting like an injured animal, Cormac didn’t suffer blows to his ego graciously. “You shouldn’t call me ‘McLaggen’ either. You’ve known me forever - so why do you treat me so coldly, Hermione?” His angry line of questioning had attracted the attention of several bystanders, but the onlookers kept their distance for the time being.

“You’re making a scene, McLaggen,” Tom warned him, smile tight. “If you must, we can all go to a pub after the appointment and talk this over drinks - on me.” Despite his overt attempts towards civility, there was a fervent look in his dark eyes, and Hermione knew Comarc would construe his words as condescending. Maybe Tom knew that too. Maybe he was more like the other boys than she had thought - in the sense that he looked forward to a good row.

“Stay out of this, you,” Cormac growled back at Tom. His broad face was beet red. “This has nothing to do with you. You’re just some stranger who’s showed up and started sticking your nose into everyone’s business. Don’t talk down to me like I’m one of your love-sick girls.”

“That’s enough.” Hermione cut in, aghast. “I don’t want to talk to you, McLaggen.” She emphasized the name. “I have nothing to say to you. Time isn’t a measure of the quality of a relationship - in fact, we have none. Now just leave us alone.” Making to walk away, much like she had done the last time, Hermione gasped in surprise when she was suddenly and violently yanked back.

Before she could even protest, before Cormac could try pleading again, she found Tom cutting between them. With a violent swing, he simultaneously knocked his fist into Cormac’s face while wrapping the other arm around her back, steadying her with a firm grip so she didn’t go crumpling down with Cormac.

Brown eyes widening in alarm and exhilaration, Hermione stared up into Tom’s face. His eyes were elsewhere, looking down on Cormac. His face was blank, the outward visage of a man driven to do only what had to be done. But as close as she was standing to him and as well as she knew him, Hermione could make out a smug curve in the corner of his mouth.

Cormac laid face-down in the dirt, a massive beast of a man brought down with a sudden blow. The dust kicked up in his violent fall slowly floated back down onto the ground around him.

Suddenly very aware of their audience (there were a pair of twin ginger faces in the crowd clamouring excitedly ‘fight, fight, fight!’), Hermione seized Tom’s wrist, pulling the dark wizard after her. The small congregation quickly parted to make space for their exit.

It hadn’t surprised her that the encounter would escalate to violence. She just simply hadn’t expected Tom to throw the first punch - or that the first blow would end the fight. There was an unexpected strength in Tom’s body; she had seen it firsthand when he struck Cormac and she had felt it again when he had held her.

Cormac was known for his drunken brawls at the local pubs. Once, he had even wrestled Vincent Crabbe to the ground for insulting the honour of some girl he fancied. It probably would have turned bloodier if Draco Malfoy hadn’t intervened, using his father’s standing as mayor as a threat. It was one of the few known instances where Cormac had backed down. She still couldn’t believe that he had really been knocked out with a single punch. He wasn’t likely to forget that either.

“What did you hit him for?” Hermione whispered fiercely, once they were out of earshot.

“What?” Tom must have picked up his black bag as she was tugging him away because it was back in his hand. “He had his hands on you. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione grimaced. “But you didn’t have to hurt him.”

Tom scoffed. “Oh please, you enjoyed it.” The words were practically spat out. “Don’t think I missed that look on your face.”

Sheepishly, her hand rose to touch her reddening cheek.

“Besides, he’s the one who ought to be embarrassed,” Tom shrugged. “He’s as dumb as a boar; you shouldn’t be so worried about what people might think. Regardless, the talk of the town’s going to be McLaggen, not you. He’s the one who picked a fight he couldn’t even finish.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Hermione protested gloomily. Tom was handsome and popular. Nothing could stick to him. This instant knockout would only boost his esteem, she was sure.

“Cheer up.” Tom stepped onto the steps of the porch of the Longbottom’s home, pulling a set of silver keys out of his pocket. Augusta trusted Tom enough to insist that her grandson lend him a pair of keys to the house. Not that Tom ever really needed keys to get where he wanted. “I’ll show you some more magic tonight. Will that get your mind off McLaggen?”

“Will you finally let me touch your wand?”

Tom laughed charmingly, pulling the door open. “My wand is unyielding. You’re more likely to injure yourself than cast any successful spells, Hermione.” He stepped into the house, surveying the empty entryway. Neville was likely out at the shop.

“The wand is only as powerful as the wizard that uses it.” That was something Harry had told her once. “He let me borrow his,” Hermione argued. She followed Tom up the staircase, her mouth fixed in an unhappy pout. It went without saying who her continual references were to.

“Sounds like his wand was easily won over,” Tom scoffed dismissively. “Besides, wandless magic is a quite a bit more difficult to successfully pull off; I thought you enjoyed a challenge.” Shushing her, pressing his finger suddenly before her lips, Tom opened the door. “Augusta.” He stood at the entrance of the elderly Longbottom’s bedroom, the sight of Hermione obstructed behind him. The pleasing smile was back on his face.

“Tom,” the old woman sat up in her bed. She wasn’t smiling. But it was still an indefinitely warmer reception than any Hermione had ever been treated to in all the years she had known the aged widow.

“How are you feeling?” Tom set the leather bag down by the foot of the bed.

Hermione followed, still unacknowledged. She opened the bag, pulling out the essential instrument, the fleam. Shortly after, she pulled out a freshly washed piece of cloth to wipe down the blades of the fleam.

“Better,” Augusta conceded.

Tom nodded sympathetically, his dark eyes allocating Augusta his full attention even as he reached out to the blades offered by Hermione. Gently, he reached out for the patient’s forearm, searching for a blue vein.

Her father still didn’t allow her any more responsibility than shadowing him or delivering medicine, and yet he had entrusted Tom to carry out half his own job. Hermione didn’t know whether to be more infuriated with her father or impressed by Tom. He took to every task with a natural confidence that couldn’t be falsified, like a bird to the sky.

Holding an empty bowl to collect the drainage, Hermione carefully set the bowl underneath Augusta’s stretched arm.

“Have you found any new help?” Tom made the first incision, fresh, bright red blood springing immediately from the cut. He was careful to avoid getting the vibrant colour stained on his pale fingers and nails. Instead, the blood streamed out freely, collecting in the bowl.

“No. That Abbott girl was nothing but trouble,” Augusta scowled at the memory. “I only kept her on so Neville would be free to work, but the boy ended up staying home all the same.” The late Hannah Abbott was not a topic broached by anyone in Augusta’s presence. But Tom had taken an interest in the burned witch, even despite Hermione’s assurances that Hannah had been decidedly Muggle. An uneasy crease had crept over the widow’s forehead and she closed her eyes tightly. “I don’t suppose you know of any girls who might be interested in working for me? One competent and moral.”

“I might know a few,” Tom answered diplomatically. His mouth twitched softly; the corner of his dark pupils reflected a distorted image of Hermione shaking her head fiercely: ‘Don’t try it, Tom.’ Examining the leaking cut dispassionately, Tom returned Augusta’s limp limb to her, wiping off the bloodied blade with another offered rag from Hermione.

“Send one my way.” Augusta’s narrow brown eyes blinked open. “I trust your judgement. No more harlots.”


	5. Chapter 5

“All hail the May Queen!”

Astoria Greengrass stood at the centre of attention, draped in silver and green fabrics. A colourful wreath of flowers crowned her dark head. She was leaning against the mayor’s son, Draco Malfoy, for support. Who would have guessed.

“I hate that she looks so beautiful,” Ginny groaned quietly. In her new dark blue dress and fiery red hair, she looked remarkably stunning herself, but that fact brought Ginny no pleasure when her own head remained crownless. Still, there was a resigned smile on her lovely face.

On her own, Astoria Greengrass was a mild-natured girl, not easily vilified; she wasn’t vindictive or proud like Pansy Parkinson or Millicent Bulstrode. In fact, she was both beautiful and sweet natured.

“It’s all rigged,” Hermione commented idly. When your friend wanted to hate something, you went along with it. Ginny had always done the same for her.

Behind Astoria stood her cluster of handpicked May Day attendants, all older girls. Her sister, Daphne, was among them, fussing over Astoria’s hair. The Carrow twins, Flora and Hestia, were speaking amongst themselves. Pansy Parkinson was watching the happy couple with a polite smile, but Hermione saw a glint of steel in the black-haired girl’s eyes. The realisation brought her a vague sense of dark satisfaction. Since the time the girls were all prepubescents, Parkinson had always been bold in her designs of becoming the next Madam Malfoy. Now she was resigned to playing friends with Astoria Greengrass.

“C’mon,” Hermione tugged on her friend’s arm. “Let’s go.” She and Ginny had only come to view the May Queen’s court and they had viewed it thoroughly. The rest of their families and friends were back at the Weasleys’ inn, where a private feast had been organised. Quietly, they left the open field (the only space large enough to host most of the townspeople) after paying the obligatory “congratulations” to Greengrass.

“I love what you’re wearing, by the way,” Ginny remarked to Hermione as they walked away. Her pale hand ran along the length of Hermione’s dress, feeling the soft fabric between her fingertips. “Wow, white really is your colour,” she added suggestively, lifting her eyebrows.

“Don’t start,” Hermione scolded her, laughing. Shoving her friend lightly, the two girls continued their walk back to the inn, a group of boys appearing further down the road.

“Ginny!”

“Hermione!”

Bounding suddenly towards them were Fred and George Weasley, both dressed in identical brown and green attires. Behind them were a small number of boys, chief among them were Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan.

“Who do you reckon is the finer Robin Hood?”

“What?” Ginny’s freckled face looked skeptically between her brothers.

“Who do you reckon is the finer Robin Hood?” the other twin repeated with greater emphasis.

“We heard you the first time,” Hermione laughed at the droll sight. “Just why?”

“Because neither of them wanted to be one of the lowly merry men but still insisted that we join their crews,” Ron spoke up sarcastically. “Oh yeah, they have seperate bands of merry men, by the way.”

“When my dear brother and I determine who is the rightful Robin Hood, we’ll combine the bands,” one of the twins spoke up, in defence of their little competition. She assumed this was Fred.

“If you’re not going to be of any help, we’ll be on our way now,” George added. “You girls are no fun.” Winking at them, the two Robin Hoods and their two separate posses of merry men wandered off to find more engaging people to poll.

Somehow Robin Hood had become associated with the May Day festivities over the recent years, but for whatever reason this was the first year that Fred and George had seemed to feel any connection to the folklore hero.

Shaking her head, Ginny smiled fondly as the boys made their exit. “That was strange, huh? No wonder they’re still bachelors.” Looking back at Hermione, her brown eyes brighter, she added, “Let’s go around the back. That’s probably where everyone is.”

Around the side of the large building, the girls were greeted to a cheerful sight. There was a long wooden table, presumably taken from the inn’s dining hall, at the centre of the festivities. Off to the side, a tall, wooden maypole had been erected. There were several children already running around the pole, holding onto colourful ribbons, among them: Victoire and Dominique Weasley.

The girls’ father, Bill Weasley, was standing close by, and accompanying him, was his younger brother, Percy. The two men’s pregnant wives were absent, likely assisting their mother-in-law in the kitchens with the rest of the women. It was only because Hermione and Ginny were still regarded as children that they were encouraged to run around and enjoy the May Day festivities, likely their last May Day as girls.

“Where’s Charlie?” Ginny wondered, walking over to the men. Every other Weasley boy was already accounted for.

“Only God knows,” Percy answered stiffly. He got on best with Bill (ironically in spite of Bill and Charlie’s close relationship), as Charlie often liked to join Fred and George in teasing him from time to time. Hermione remembered being witness to one of their more violent arguments as a younger child. “Maybe he ducked into the woods. You know he’s always been the outdoor-wilderness type.”

“Yeah but he’s not stupid,” Ginny scoffed.

“Congratulations again on the pregnancy, Bill,” Hermione spoke up before the conversation became exclusively speculation into Charlie’s whereabouts. “You too, Percy. You and Audrey will be great parents.” Two pregnancies in the family - it was an exciting time for the Weasley clan.

Percy smiled at her appreciatively, while Bill grinned. “Hey, thanks, Hermione.”

Despite the great age gap, Bill had always been kind to Hermione, and he was someone she and the rest of her friends had long looked up to. Handsome and capable, he was simply someone all the girls had admired and the boys had sought to emulate. On the other hand, Percy was decidedly less popular amongst the younger Weasleys and their friends, but Hermione had always gotten on fairly well with Percy. His general interest in bureaucracy and rigid affinity for rules was something she could sympathise with. Even if Hermione wasn’t oblivious to his more self-important qualities.

“Have you decided on the names?” It was a question both Bill and Percy were all too happy to indulge in.

‘Louis’ was the frontrunner, and the name first suggested by Fleur. Bill and Fleur’s children were generally named in the French fashion, if the trend of ‘Victoire’ and ‘Dominique’ was any indication. And, if on the off-chance, they were to welcome a third daughter into the world, Fleur had suggested ‘Gabrielle’ in honour of her beloved baby sister, whom she had left behind with the rest of her family in France.

In contrast, Percy was firm in his belief that his first-born child would be a son. He wanted the boy to be named for him, ‘Percy II’. The revelation had Hermione and Ginny exchanging private looks that went unnoticed by Percy. He even already had the name of the second boy in mind: ‘Arthur’ for his father. Vaguely offended, Ginny had pressed him, eventually pressuring Percy to concede that on the off-chance it was necessary, he would name a stray daughter in honour of the Weasley matriarch and their mother, Molly.

By then, possibly demoralised by Percy’s grandiose vision, Hermione and Ginny excused themselves from the conversation. As soon as they were out of earshot, Ginny took the opportunity to quietly complain about her older brother, her voice heated. “What a prat. Did you hear how he calls our parents ‘mother’ and ‘father’? Just call them ‘mum’ and ‘dad’, Percy! God, he’s pretentious.”

“He’s your brother,” Hermione reminded her, failing to stifle her laughter. One of Ginny’s six colourful brothers.

“Yeah, so trust me when I say that I definitely know what I’m talking about,” Ginny muttered quietly. “He didn’t always talk like that, you know. I bet you he probably already has some grand scheme thought up to become the next mayor.” While Ginny shook her head, the girls walked over to the colourful maypole. “Bill, I’m going to steal your girls, is that okay?” she called back to the two men, voice louder.

When Bill nodded an affirmation, Ginny picked up Dominique and Hermione took Victoire’s hand.

“Do you want to pick flowers, Dominique? Let’s pick some flowers,” Ginny cooed to her youngest niece.

“I’ll show you how to make flower garlands,” Hermione promised Victoire.

The Weasleys’ property was relatively modest and it was a only few short steps from the maypole over to the grove of apple trees, the natural barrier between the inn and the meadow outside of the town’s official boundary lines. Large numbers of wildflowers and shrubberies had sprung up beneath the shadows of the apple trees.

Victoire was careful in selecting only pink and yellow flowers, while Dominique was happy to tug at any colourful plant she saw, tearing a few leaves and losing a few petals in the clumsy process.

The four girls came to sit together under the tallest apple tree. Ginny began putting together a multi-colour ring of flowers for Dominique while Hermione helped Victoire form her own crown.

“I heard Tom and Cormac fought,” Ginny ventured. She wasn’t looking at Hermione. Her eyes were averted, fixed on Dominique’s hands which she held in her own. How many days had Ginny held herself back from asking since she had first heard of the incident? Hermione had to admire her restraint.

“I would hardly even call it a fight.” The image of Cormac collapsing limply to the ground was still vivid in her mind. “But what of it?”

Ginny hestianted, looking uncertain herself as to where the conversation was going. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just heard that they were fighting over you. What was that about?” Ginny had tried for a casual smile, but Hermione could sense the vulnerability in her question.

“No. They were not fighting over me,” Hermione shook her head, laughing harshly. “That’s just ridiculous. Don’t listen to the gossip, Ginny.” Glancing briefly to Victoire and wondering how much the little girl would pick up of their conversation this time, Hermione continued, explaining, “McLaggen was being pushy - Tom was just trying to help. It got out of hand. That’s all there is to it.” She didn’t know if Ginny believed her, but she didn’t want to indulge in any more rumours.

“Oh.” Ginny reached out a hand to touch her, her palm warm and soft. “Well then, I’m just glad that you weren’t hurt. I know things have been a little off for us lately, but you’re my best friend, Hermione. I would never want you to get hurt. Okay?” Her eyes searched Hermione’s, the conviction in them clear.

“Yeah, I know.” Hermione managed a smile, easing back against the tree.

Several minutes passed by in relative silence, both girls privately mulling over their conversation. For the most part, both Weasley children had been more focused on the flower garlands to pay any attention to the words exchanged between Ginny and Hermione - or in Dominique’s case, even comprehend them.

“Aunt Ginny,” Victoire spoke up finally. “I have to go,” the girl whined. The completed flower crown sat on her head, the pink and yellow colours standing out nicely in her white hair.

“I could take her,” Hermione offered. Victoire pouted, clearly preferring her aunt.

“No, no,” Ginny shook her head. But she smiled. “Thanks for offering though. Would you watch Dominique while we’re gone? We won’t be too long.” Gently scooping the youngest Weasley into Hermione’s opened arms, she took Victoire’s outstretched hand. “Thanks, Hermione.”

Waving her friend off, Hermione looked down at the baby in her arms. Dominique could walk a little better than she could talk, but she managed to lift a chubby hand. “Bye-bye.” She seemed more content to be held than to be left on the grass.

Ginny had already finished the garland lining Dominique’s fair head. The colours were chaotic in range, but somehow came together nicely, narrowingly avoiding a colour clash.

Balancing the infant carefully in her lap, Hermione reached out to pluck at the leaves and flowers of a nearby hawthorn shrub. The blossoms were white, some of which had already been collected to decorate the wooden maypoles. This new garland would have more green than flowers, Hermione decided. Rising up, with Dominique sliding down onto the curve of her hip, she began to walk around the miniature orchard, her incomplete garland in hand.

She was leaning over, gently breaking off a twig of woodbine - leaves and red berries still attached - when a familiar pair of black shoes came into view. She didn’t need to look up to recognise him. “You’ve made yourself scarce today, haven’t you?”

“Oh?” Tom laughed, crouching down to be at eye-level. “Was Ginny asking after me or did you just miss me?”

“Neither. She’s hardly thought of you at all today.” That was probably a blatant lie. Hermione sunk down into the grass, still balancing Dominique and the plants. “Hold her for me, would you?”

Tom graciously accepted the babe. As she suspected, he was as good with children as he was with adults. Dominique stared unblinkingly up at Tom’s pale face, mesmerised by his ethereal features. Even infants could recognise Tom’s magnetism. “This isn’t yours, is it?” He only glanced at the baby’s face for half a second, smirking.

“She’s Fleur and Bill Weasley’s. She’s Ginny’s niece.” She rolled her eyes.

“I see the resemblance.”

They sat together quietly like that for some time. Hermione continued to work on weaving more leafy materials into her garland while Tom held Dominique quietly.

Tom shrunk back, eluding her when she had made a move to set the finished garland on his head.

“Don’t be stubborn.” She insisted, holding the garland in both hands.

“I’m not,” he scoffed. “I just don’t care to wear twigs and leaves on my head.”

“They’re not just ‘twigs and leaves’,” Hermione refuted. “It’s hawthorn and woodbine.” Lunging again, she successfully planted the ring of green onto his hair. “See? It looks nice.”

“You know hawthorn are said to be transfigured witches,” Tom mused, accepting the garland more quickly than she had expected. (But to be fair, she had been half-expecting the garland to be immediately set on fire the moment it touched his hair. He was volatile that way.) Dominique remained cradled in his arms. The infant had drifted off into a light sleep at some point. “Funny how people decorate for May Day with hawthorn but will never take the flowers into their home.”

“It’s bad luck,” Hermione pointed out. “I didn’t know that when I was little and I did exactly that - my mother scolded me and ripped up the blossoms.” Hermione’s maternal grandmother had passed away a few short weeks after, so perhaps there was some truth to that old superstition. Or more likely, it was just another coincidence. Either way, her parents held onto their beliefs tightly. “Actually, you’re not even supposed to damage or cut them down. I don’t remember the details, but they’re supposed to be sacred to fairies.”

“And yet - ”

He abruptly stopped speaking. Confused, Hermione followed his gaze, finding Ginny’s familiar figure as the girl walked towards them. She was alone.

“Where’s Victoire?” Hermione corrected her posture, back straightening.

“She found Fleur and abandoned me.” Ginny’s laugh came easy. As her laughter and smiles always did when Tom was around. Her brown eyes were bright, a renewed flush of hope colouring her cheeks. Most girls became livelier in Tom’s presence. “I didn’t know you liked children, Tom.” Ginny was positively fawning over the sight of her niece in Tom’s arms. (Admittedly Hermione rather liked the image too. There was probably something primal, instinctive, about that fact.)

“Who doesn’t?” Tom answered blandly. Sometimes he forgot to - or didn’t care to - put the effort of feeling into his words, but no one ever seemed to notice how hollowed Tom sounded when he was like that. Even as he spoke, Tom had risen back to his feet, returning Ginny her niece.

“I almost forgot,” Ginny said, looking down at the baby in her arms. “I also came to tell you that the food’s ready. C’mon, let’s go.”

As they walked back to the feast, a very short walk, Ginny had situated herself at the centre of their party, chattering cheerfully to both Tom and Hermione and cooing at her baby niece.

When they returned to the grand table, Hermione found herself sitting between Percy and Ron, across from Charlie, the Weasleys’ elusive mercenary son. It was probably the first time Hermione had seen Charlie since she was very young. Charlie wasn’t as tall as Ron, he was much bulkier than Percy, and he was not nearly as handsome as Bill, but he had a certain rugged appeal.

Tom sat further down the table, between Ginny and Lavender Brown and across from Neville Longbottom.

Hermione had resigned herself to listening to Ron’s football stories when he had developed a new annoying habit. Every now and then, when he had felt that Lavender had become too engrossed in whatever Tom was telling the rest of the table, he would nudge the girl and relate to her whatever it was that he had told Hermione just a few seconds ago. To Hermione’s disgruntlement, Lavender only enabled the behaviour, laughing fondly and gently patting his freckled hand each time without fail.

“Will you stop it?” Hermione hissed into his ear - after what was probably the tenth time she had seen him starting to turn to Lavender, mouth parting to form words. “She’s clearly already in love with you, what are you getting yourself so worked up for?”

Ron’s ears turned pink. “I was just talking to her,” the Weasley boy insisted heatedly. “You’re mental, Hermione,” he added for good measure.

“If I’m so mental, then how is it that you immediately knew what I was referring to?” Hermione countered waspishly. Ron had to recognise some truth in what she was saying. “Besides, I thought you were beginning to like Tom.” She had tried to shrug off Ron’s insult but the familiar anger was creeping back. Much of their friendship - as much as she valued it - was spent bickering like this.

“I do,” Ron answered snappishly. “Believe me, we’re all grateful he knocked McLaggen down a peg or two.”

“Lower your voice,” Hermione warned. In the heat of their exchange, Ron had steadily begun to forget to control the volume of his voice, but overtly it didn’t seem that anyone else had noticed. Lavender was still listening to Tom’s proposal for Neville and Ginny. Percy was prattling on about something or the other to Audrey. And Charlie was relaying his experiences as a soldier of fortune for the French crown to his neighbour, Fleur, who hadn’t seen her motherland in the years since even before she met and married Bill.

Sighing heavily, Ron turned his attention onto his food, eating aggressively. “You’ve become meaner lately,” he complained between a mouthful of brown and green.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. The food was delicious, but the conversation lacking. Ron’s new quirk wasn’t nearly as irritating as Percy’s shallow analysis of the town’s small-scale politics. It wasn’t until hours after the sun had set that Hermione saw Tom again.

There were several men trying to start up the bonfire. Hermione sat watching with Neville Longbottom. He didn’t look especially happy, but he looked content. That was probably enough for now.

“Is it true that Ginny’s going to be your grandmother’s new nurse?” Hermione inquired quietly. It came naturally, the inclination to speak more softly around Neville.

“You heard that, huh?” Neville glanced at her. There was a half-metre of space between them. “I guess so. Tom thinks it’s a good idea and I know Gran trusts his judgement.”

“Do you?”

He looked as if the question had never occurred to him. “What do you mean?” Neville laughed, a little nervously the way he always did when he was unsure. “He’s a nice bloke?”

She didn’t know why she had asked. Of course, Neville liked Tom. The two had spent very little time together, but Tom really only ever needed a few minutes to win someone over. But it was still disconcerting to see Tom’s charms working as effectively as they did and also know that if the truth of his identity ever came out, he would immediately be labelled a heretic and a villain. Hermione didn’t imagine that even his smart looks and careful words could save him in that event. Tom was likely to turn to violence, just as he had done when Cormac aroused his annoyance.

“I just worry for Ginny sometimes,” Hermione confessed. And she knew that that was the wrong thing to say when Neville’s face fell. Sometimes she forgot to be tactful, when it was just easier - in line of her personal character - to be straightforward. But easier wasn’t better. And it didn’t change the fact that Augusta was a vicious, dangerous old crone. “Sorry,” Hermione added quickly.

Neville didn’t say anything but nod and she had nothing else to say, so Hermione was grateful when Fred and George suddenly started whooping, their shouts ending the pause of silence. The bonfire had grown to its full height, orange flames blazing wildly.

Neville stood up abruptly. “I’ll see you, Hermione.”

She was alone again, staring into the light of the fire. She hated to be alone at times like this when her mind naturally turned to rumination.

Until she wasn’t - when Tom suddenly plopped down onto the grass beside her, the garland of hawthorn and woodbine still sitting in his black hair. But that wasn’t really the right word for it: ‘plopping’. Because like everything else he did, Tom moved with a distinctive fluidness, always purposeful and measured.

“Are you sure you should be sitting so close to the bonfire?” There was a hint of alcohol in his cool breath. She wondered who he had been with in the time since she’s seen him, who he had been getting drunk and friendly with. But his clear eyes decidedly dispelled the possibility that he was actually drunk. In the direct glow of the fire, his eyes looked much lighter than they were - a soft shade of brown, instead of the impossible black she was accustomed to seeing. No real surprise - Tom simply didn’t seem like the kind of man to let his guard down, not even when alcohol came into the picture. She imagined that he was always the last lucid man in every room.

“I thought the whole point of these were to ward off witches,” Tom laughed, jutting his chin towards the bonfire, where several boys had begun dancing around the pit. His laugh was scornful and disparaging, but in that moment it sounded more real than anything else she had come across in a long time. “Isn’t it supposed to be Walpurgisnacht?”

“We call it Walpurgis Night here - ” Hermione didn’t understand why Tom spent so much time amongst the Muggles when he didn’t have to, why he was everyone’s friend. She had always found hiding to be fundamentally against her innate nature. She had also come to realise that Tom had even more to hide, more at risk. Hiding didn’t suit him any more than it did her. “ - I guess they just must not be doing it right then.”

Silently, at some point, their shoulders had begun to touch. His left hand was planted on the grass beside hers, his black ring glittering weakly in the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Devlin085 for leaving a comment last chapter. I'll be home by the end of next week so hopefully I'll be able to write more frequently then.


	6. Chapter 6

Ron Weasley proposed to Lavender Brown as May Day bled into Walpurgis Night. By morning, the news of their engagement had become the talk of town. It persisted over the following days.

“Congratulations.” Because Ginny was walking at the centre of the trio, Hermione had to crane her neck forward to be able to turn and look at Lavender directly. It was strange coming to terms with the knowledge that Ron was actually engaged and would likely be married before the end of summer. He and Lavender had been dancing around the idea of marriage for quite some time. Some part of Hermione must have still seen them as the children she had grown up with because marriage still seemed like a daunting rite of passage reserved for the real adults, such Bill or Percy. “Did I tell you that yet?”

She didn’t especially like it, but at various points over the years, Hermione had often wondered where her life would be at if Harry hadn’t disappeared. Perhaps - and she was conscious of this - she was only romancisting the memory of him, but this question would only frequent her mind increasingly often as her childhood progressed through its final stages of decay.

“No, but thank you.” Lavender smiled back at her. Her light blue eyes had a vague dream-like quality to them. She must have been picturing her wedding day in her mind’s eye. She often seemed distracted nowadays - not that the girl had been particularly vigilant or focused before. She had always been something of a dreamer (it was more romantic and kinder than saying that she was idle and easily distracted). And she had liked giggling with her friends about the prospects of a marriage to Ron even during their early months of courtship, when all they did was hold hands and snog in dark corners, away from the eyes of their elders. Not that they were very discrete.

But it was common for a woman to play out her wedding fantasies in her girlhood, and Hermione and Ginny had not been exceptions. (Although Hermione could never remember which of the two had originally prompted the game in the first place and which of them had been only dragged along.) Most of the time they had enlisted either Ron or Neville to play the part of the groom; because even in playing pretend as a young child Ginny refused to marry her brother. As for Hermione, she couldn’t have cared less as for whom she was marrying - her focus was on herself as the bride. The identity of the bridegroom was irrelevant.

“Well, thanks for walking me to Neville’s.” Ginny broke away from them, giving the two girls a tight-lipped smile. Arthur and Molly had welcomed the opportunity for their daughter to work outside the inn where they had enough help as it was (in the form of their army of children), but Ginny was unlikely to have gone along with the idea of working for Augusta Longbottom, had it not been made on Tom’s suggestion. Never mind the fact that she was good friends with Augusta’s grandson and once, on several occasions, imaginary-bride to him.

“Good luck.” Hermione disguised her skepticism with an encouraging smile. Augusta was a formidable woman, but if she had ever had to pick the woman’s equal Ginny might be a suitable match. When she wasn’t thoroughly enchanted by Tom, the youngest Weasley was an assertive and self-sufficient girl - she had had to grow up in a house of six older brothers, after all.

“Just do whatever she tells you to, Ginny,” Lavender offered helpfully.

With a final word of “thanks”, Ginny trotted up the porch steps, knocking once on the door. Within seconds, Neville had appeared, pulling the door open. Whether or not he saw Hermione and Lavender, he didn’t acknowledge them and only ushered Ginny into the house. The door shut quickly behind her.

She looked away from the house. “Where to now?” Hermione wasn’t as intimate friends with Lavender as she was to Ginny - the blonde girl had joined their circle as Ginny’s friend sometime during their preadolescence. Hermione had always suspected that she had entered the fold primarily for Ron. Even then Ron had been an avid football player and susceptible to Lavender’s sweet flattery. Originally Hermione had resented her for it, but the old dislike had slowly died off to be replaced by a friendly sort of tolerance for Ron’s sake.

“My mother’s shop,” Lavender answered, taking her arm as Ginny might have done. “She just finished drawing up designs for the wedding dress and bridesmaid dresses and I want your opinion on them..”

“Shouldn’t you ask Ginny for something like that?” Or one of her other bridesmaids?

“I’ll ask Ginny when Augusta lets her off for the day,” Lavender brushed off the question. “Besides, I want to know what you think. You have good taste,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh?” Hermione peered warily at her, as she was prone to doing. The interjection was rhetorical but Lavender answered her anyways.

“I know about how you and Ron used to be,” Lavender admitted slowly. Why she had broached this awkward topic now, Hermione would never understand.

“Ron and I were never together.” Hermione looked away, onto the cobblestone street ahead of them.

“No, but - ” Lavender shifted against her arm. “ - I think Ron used to have feelings for you, even if he probably won’t ever admit it. And I think you liked him too. You guys had a special relationship.”

“Lavender,” she used the girl’s name deliberately. “I think you’re romanticising our constant bickering and mistaking it for something that it wasn’t,” Hermione dismissed her softly, laughing once for added effect. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she suspected that Tom would have probably somehow found this exchange funny; he never seemed to feel awkward. Maybe she could have too, but Hermione couldn’t find any humour when she still didn’t know why Lavender was bringing this up now and not in the years ago when she had first made her advances on Ron clear. Especially because Lavender wasn’t totally off the mark.

It was simply that after Harry had come along, Hermione had lost the torch she had carried for Ron. Ron wouldn’t have been able to understand her the way Harry had, or even the way Tom related to her now. There was always a hefty risk involved in sharing magic with Muggles, and even if Ron didn’t immediately oust her out to the rest of the town, their relationship would have been irreversibly changed, and likely for the worse. It was easier to not take that risk and let things lay where they were.

“Ron and I are great friends but we don’t always like each other,” Hermione said with conviction. “We’re not compatible, romantically, in the way you two are together. There’s nothing for you to worry about, Lavender; there’s nothing between us.”

Lavender searched her face, compelling Hermione to meet her blue gaze. Whatever she thought she found must have satisfied her because she smiled again, laughing cheerily. “Good, because I really didn’t want to have to share my ‘Won-won’.” It was an old term of endearment she hadn’t heard in some time. Lavender’s ability to laugh at herself shocked Hermione, perhaps unfairly. ‘Won-won’ was an old pet name for her sweetheart and when Ron had finally summoned the courage to tell her to cease and desist, Lavender was distraught. It seemed that when Hermione wasn’t looking, Lavender had grown up too.

“So, was this all you wanted me for?” She finished her question with a note of distraction in her voice.

Tom was crossing the road ahead of them. He hadn’t seen the girls and Hermione knew he wasn’t running errands for her father today because the conspicuous black bag was absent. The tall wizard disappeared behind a street corner, already gone by the time she and Lavender walked past it. She assumed he was visiting the forest again, which beckoned to her from behind the row of fences. She and Tom often went together into the forest at night for privacy, but she suspected that he ducked into the trees far more often without her. When she had followed him into the forest - it probably hadn’t been his first venture into the trees.

The cause for his fascination with the forest remained largely a mystery to her, but Hermione was beginning to suspect that there were a number of magical creatures and plants residing in the forest. How none of the townspeople had ever discovered such fauna and flora so close to their homes, she didn’t know. But if there was truly magic in the forest, then it could be logically reasoned that there was probably a magical explanation for that as well. The fact that very few of the townspeople ever dared to venture into the forest also probably didn’t hurt.

At some point, she would have to ask Tom. But because Hermione’s curiosity was infinite and there were so many diverse disciplines of magic, there never seemed to be enough time in the world to ask all the questions she wanted to, share all the ideas that had already taken root in her mind despite her limited learning. It was endlessly frustrating that there were no written records of magic academia available to her, nothing like Dumbledore’s vast library, which Tom had described to her in begrudging admiration. Tom’s generosity was her only avenue of knowledge. But Tom only ever deigned to discuss the matters that interested _him_.

What was probably even worse than the lack of books was that she still didn’t have her own wand, and Tom, who claimed to have been learning about the process of wand crafting, said that he didn’t have the resources available to make her one. It would have been slightly more tolerable if only Tom didn’t guard his own so possessively. The only time she had ever touched it was when he had pressed into the hollow of her neck.

She didn’t mention seeing Tom to Lavender. The girl’s blue eyes were still fixed on her.

“No - believe it or not I wasn’t planning on bringing this up at all,” Lavender admitted with a sheepish smile. “I meant it as an innocent remark, I really did.” Hermione believed her. Lavender could be catty as they all were (as Hermione had been when she unintentionally cursed Marietta Edgecombe with painful face boils), but she really wasn’t prone to machinations in the style of Pansy Parkinson. “Actually,” she laughed. “I originally meant to ask if you would be interested in being one of my bridesmaids?”

“Really?” Hermione was more expressive than she would have liked to be. Her shock was plainly sprawled across her face.

“Aren’t we friends?”

“Well yes.” She was surprised to find that she meant it too. Aside from Ginny, Ron, and Tom, she didn’t have many friends. “I guess - ” Hermione cut herself off. “Lavender, I would be honoured to be one of your bridesmaids,” she stated firmly.

“Really? I’m so happy.” Lavender grinned, leaning against her shoulder. “I really thought you didn’t like me, to be honest.”

Not at first. But Hermione didn’t see the point in admitting that when Lavender looked so relieved.

“Anyways, I was thinking that the bridesmaids could wear something blue or lilac.” Lavender returned to the topic of the wedding just as they entered her mother’s shop. She pulled the door open, ducking in after Hermione.

The older Brown woman was standing in the back of the store, helping another customer who had her back to them, but she waved a hand in greeting. Hermione didn’t know Lavender’s mother very well, having only come to her shop on few occasions and only beginning to see her more and more frequently at Weasley functions, but she bore a slight resemblance to her daughter’s future mother-in-law in terms of maternal warmth.

The two girls sat together on the wooden chairs by the walls. Hermione’s brown eyes skirted towards the open window every now and then. People passed by - all of whom she recognised. It was a small town, after all. The only thing that kept their town from being legally classified as a village or a hamlet was the presence of their church, built near the centre of town to keep a watchful eye on the activities of the local parish.

“I wonder which of us will get married next,” Lavender laughed. She was kicking her feet lightly like a child. But she was too tall and her feet lightly scraped the floor with each kick.

“Isn’t it bad luck to speculate?”

“Oh,” Lavender scoffed. She had always been an avid fan of fortune tellers and divination, giggling with her similarly-minded friends. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Hermione was sure the other girl didn’t mean to, but the question felt like a trap. “Besides, I’ve never known you for being superstitious.” 

In fact, Hermione’s rationalism almost bordered on heresy. But it was doubly offensive to be both a witch and a heretic. Ignoring Lavender’s comment, after a moment of consideration she blandly decided, “Probably Malfoy and Greengrass.”

Lavender pulled a face before she started laughing. “That’s not what I meant and I think you knew that.” Shaking her head, she clarified, “I meant us, you know - you, Ginny, Neville…” Lavender waved a hand.

“I guess I thought it would be Neville.” Until Abbott went up in flames. “Now? I don’t really know.”

“You don’t think Ginny and Tom will ever?” A brow lifted meaningfully. “You know.”

Hermione wet her lips. If she said the wrong thing, the implications could be… unfortunate. As well-meaning as Lavender was, she talked. Often. “Tom seems unlikely to marry, he travels so much.” But she didn’t want to outrightly lie either. False hope, that was an awful thing.

“I guess.” Lavender looked displeased with her reserve. But she was also clever enough to realise that the topic was a dry well. “What about Cormac McLaggen then?” It was a discussion Hermione had already had with Ginny but Lavender apparently hadn't heard. She appreciated Ginny for that.

“I don’t think he likes me very much anymore.” Hermione could live with that.

A vaguely maniacal gleam suddenly entered Lavender’s blue eyes. “So, you didn’t notice how he was looking at you then?”

“With murderous intent?”

Lavender laughed again. “No, Hermione, my goodness.” Shaking her head, her golden curls bounced with each turn.

“When did we see him?” Hermione decided to humour her.

“You didn’t notice? When we were walking - just three minutes ago probably - he passed right by you.” Her heart-shaped face sunk into her two hands, a twee expression brightening her pink face. “He had the saddest look on his face. It almost broke my heart,” she confessed with a suffering sigh.

“Oh.” Hermione didn’t know how to respond. But she didn’t like how fondly Lavender spoke of Cormac, as if she had been too harsh with him. “Well, you didn’t see how he was when - ” Wait. She didn’t want to talk about this. But Lavender was already listening with rapt attention. She had to say something eventually. “He’s not a puppy.”

Lavender pouted. She probably would have kept talking about the matter of Cormac if her mother and the customer didn’t return to the front of the store.

Now Hermione could see that it was Pansy Parkinson. There was a folded deep green dress draped over her crossed arms. The dark-haired girl smiled down at them, her dark eyes glinting maliciously under full, lush eyebrows. She was as pretty as Astoria Greengrass and not nearly half as amiable.

“Congratulations on your engagement, Lavender,” she simpered. She always looked like she was smirking, even when she probably didn’t mean to. Or maybe that was just her favourite look.

“Lavender dear, I’ll be with you and your friend in a moment,” her mother breezily informed them before ducking to the back of the shop, her curly blonde locks flying after her.

Nodding briefly to her mother, although the woman couldn’t see it, Lavender smiled back at Pansy. “Thank you.” Hermione didn’t think they were friends - she had hardly ever seen them even speaking one-on-one, but it seemed that the two had a cordial relationship. It was far more than Hermione could claim to have with Pansy or her girl friends. She wondered how Lavender had avoided Pansy’s teasing over the years - probably because there had been easier targets.

Pansy still didn’t acknowledge Hermione. “Lavender, did you hear about the witch-hunter?” She spoke in an excited, conspiratory tone.

“We have a witch-hunter now?” Hermione spoke up regardless, undeterred by Pansy’s shunning. She suspected that the other girl would be unable to outrightly ignore her in front of Lavender if directly spoken to.

Pansy’s left cheek lifted in a shadow of a sneer as she reluctantly turned her eyes on Hermione. “He’s new in town - his name is Dedalus Diggle.” 

“What’s a witch-hunter doing here?” Lavender wondered aloud, a hint of worry on her face. “Did the church hire him?”

“Not yet.” Pansy was eager to share. “But I heard he’s already built up quite a reputation for himself in the other towns - he’s a ‘Witchfinder General’. I heard he’s led about a dozen investigations, all successful. At least thirty convictions. Maybe he’ll find another Abbott.” She was looking fully at Hermione now.

“He that diligently seeks good procures favour: but he that seeks mischief, it shall come unto him,” Hermione quoted grimly, meeting her gaze steadily.

“Are you a poet now?” Pansy forgot to play nice. She was never very good at that, after all. “Did you stitch that into a tapestry too, Granger?” She had always been the first to accuse Hermione of being a know-it-all. The childhood insult was still as annoying and aggravating as when she had first heard it, but Hermione wouldn’t change herself for Pansy’s benefit.

“That’s from the Book of Proverbs, Old Testament.” She couldn’t resist adding: “Maybe you should read up on that before you see Diggle.”

Lavender looked like she might laugh. With little subtlety, she covered her mouth with a hand. Maybe she was already laughing.

Pansy paled, at a loss for words. Her dark eyes shimmered as she glared at Hermione. She didn’t particularly look any more relieved when Lavender’s mother reappeared, interrupting them.

“Let me show you the designs I drew up,” the older woman smiled, oblivious as to their exchange.

“It was nice talking to you, Pansy,” Lavender smiled briefly at the other girl before following her mother away.

Hermione didn’t even bother with a parting word. She was certain that Pansy would have lingered, would have followed them to the back and taken a peek at the wedding preparations if she had won the previous round. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” Hermione remarked when she saw the sketch of the bridal gown held in Lavender Brown’s mother’s hands.

It was a long, flowing white gown. It was simple but lovely. The trimmings were gold and the embroidery a pale silver. There was a reason the Browns were the most popular dressmakers in town.

“I have many more designs,” Lavender’s mother informed them excitedly. “Whatever you like, Lavender dear.”

She pulled out a number of more sketches. All were fine choices, which she displayed proudly, but the first one still stuck out most to Hermione. Eventually however, Lavender selected one of the last sketches presented, a white dress with flowing sleeves and a square neckline that cut far below the shoulders.

“I like this one, Mum,” she declared with a pink-lipped smile. “Can we see the bridesmaids dresses now?” She held it up for Hermione to see as her mother began pulling out more sketches and they went through the same process again with Hermione preferring one dress and not quite voicing her opinion and Lavender being adamant on another choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to quickly thank thewinnowingwind and Devlin085 for leaving comments on the last chapter. Your kind words really mean the world to me and I'm also grateful to everyone else who subscribed or left kudos or bookmarks. As always, I really would love to hear constructive criticism or just whatever thoughts you guys might have! I flew home over the weekend so I have a lot more time to write now, although I'll be a little busy with getting ready to start school again in a few weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom’s request to meet in the tavern hall of the Weasley’s inn took Hermione by surprise but she obliged. After completing her daily chores at home (it was laundry day), she left for the inn in the early evening just as the sun was beginning to turn red. On her way out the door she had told her mother, truthfully, that she was going to the Weasleys’. Mother had waved her off, saying: “Have fun - but don’t stay out too late.” Her parents had always trusted her to behave herself and had granted her a great deal of self-autonomy from a young age.

The Weasley tavern was already a full house. Guests sat in every available seat at every table and booth. There were several familiar faces, such as Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe, which she promptly ignored. It didn’t take more than a few seconds of scanning the room to single out Tom. The dark-haired wizard was sitting alone in a shadowy corner, his booth facing the entrance as if to watch everyone who came in through the door. He was looking back at her; shadows shrouded his handsome face from the glow of the torches lighting the area.

“You look awfully sinister, you know, lurking like that,” Hermione teased. She had carefully weaved her way through the thick room, taking the open seat across from him. “What did you want to meet here for anyhow?” Usually, they met behind her house after her parents had retired to bed and entered the forest from there. It was more convenient.

Tom looked back at her, his dark-onyx eyes cool and inscrutable much like how they typically appeared. “Do you really need a reason?” he challenged her idly, probably just for the fun of it. “I felt like having a drink.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough.” But she doubted it. 

Hermione didn’t visit the Weasleys’ tavern very often. The establishment mainly catered to the men of town or to the travellers staying at the inn. But the food was always good - as to be expected of anything coming out of Molly Weasley’s kitchen.

Hermione was also privately relieved to see that Ginny didn’t seem to be around - since the girl had started working for Augusta Longbottom she had been relieved of her serving duties in the tavern. Undoubtedly, she would have wanted to join Hermione and Tom, or at the very least have many questions for Hermione. Of course, such a thought probably never even occurred to Tom - or if it did, the emotions of a love-distressed girl were entirely irrelevant to him and his master plans.

Tom lifted a fine eyebrow, nodding to the pie sitting between them on the table. She hadn’t even noticed it. It must have arrived at the table only shortly before she had because there were still faint, white wisps of heat rising up from the golden-brown crust. “Have you eaten yet?” When she shook her head, Tom took one of the clean plates set on the table and began carving out a generous slice onto the plate and placing it before her.

“Meat pie?” It was probably the Weasleys’ most popular dish.

“Chicken.” He carved out a slice for himself.

They ate together in silence for a time before Hermione brought up the question, quietly spoken: “Are we still going out tonight?” Although she remained discrete, she didn’t that imagine that there was anyone was eavesdropping on their conversation now. Most of the other tavern patrons were either already inebriated or well on their way. And despite what he had said, Tom hadn’t ordered any alcohol for their table and frankly she preferred it that way (the men of the town drank enough as it was). But nevertheless, the secretive nature of their excursions alone encouraged caution. Witchcraft wasn’t the only thing they could be accused of.

“Later,” Tom assured her. Nonchalantly, he carved out another slice for them each. “Hermione, do you see that man over there?” He lifted the wooden spoon to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully behind closed lips.

He didn’t need to point so much as a finger for Hermione to catch on; she tracked the trajectory of his dark gaze and followed the invisible path, her face slowly angling away from their table as she subtly glanced over her shoulder.

There was a small man wearing a faded purple hat sitting a few tables away. He was in the company of some of the older, more distinguished men in town - men from the church or from the influential families, the Malfoys, the Notts, and so forth. The purple hat looked rather worn, and the realisation suddenly struck her that it might have passed down to him as a family heirloom of sorts, as she had read that purple dye had become increasingly more and more expensive since the fall of a trading empire in the east. And based on the rest of his attire he most certainly was not a wealthy lord who could afford thoughtless luxuries like choosing the colour of his clothes.

“So what about him?” Hermione turned back to Tom. The older man looked pleasantly cheerful and a little red in the cheeks. If he had passed her on the street earlier that day or on any other day he would have been very unlikely to catch her attention, much less Tom’s, who was already critically selective of his precious time as it was. But Hermione knew the face of everyone in town and she didn’t know the purple hatted man.

“He’s a witch-hunter,” Tom informed her, a mocking turn to his attractive mouth.

“Dedalus Diggle,” she realised aloud. The realisation had came to her just before Tom could elaborate.

Tom didn’t look very surprised, but she thought she caught a quick lifting of the brows that was gone in the next blink of the eye. “So you’ve already heard of him then.”

“A little.” She recalled Pansy Parkinson’s pale face. “He seems more like a fraud than anything for us to worry ourselves with,” Hermione quietly denounced the man with a casual shrug of the shoulders. “He works his way through towns, getting paid to pick out the witches in a parish.” His witch-hunting business was already half-completed by the time he was invited to a town. It was a lucrative line of work, condemning the socially vulnerable.

“You’re not the least bit concerned?”

“You are?” That shocked Hermione.

“No.” Tom drawled coldly. “But this begs the question of who’s paying him.”

“Nobody’s paying him. I think he’s just looking for work right now,” Hermione scoffed. “No one wants another Abbott.” Although, she suspected that it was more because the townspeople were leery of the costs of burning a witch than anything particularly moral or resembling a merciful sentiment. There were fees for producing the stakes and gibbets on which a witch was burned. Men needed to be paid to arrest and imprison the witch in the first place, to interrogate her and run a trial. Because witch trials were a matter of public concern, it naturally fell onto the public to fund the trials, and that funding was procured through raised taxes.

“No,” Tom agreed simply. “But it won’t be long until he finds one.”

They left together a little before dusk, before the tavern would have started clearing out. Dedalus Diggle had fallen face-first asleep on his table and was dozing off his drunkenness when they walked out the door. Hermione might have laughed if she wasn’t too busy brooding.

After a time, as they were crossing into the darkened fields, Tom remarked, “Your parents are very lenient. Most parents guard their daughters very closely.”

“What are you implying?” Hermione squinted at him through the dimming light. It was too hazardous for Tom to cast an illumination spell when they could still be spotted by one of the townspeople looking out their windows or wandering the streets.

“I implied nothing. You’re inferring.”

Hermione sniffed in disgruntlement. “Well, if you must know, they live by the principle of never asking questions they don’t want the answers to.” It was far better for them to not have to acknowledge their daughter’s peculiarities and this was convenient for Hermione too. Otherwise, she would have found her parents’ wilful ignorance aggravating. A conscious strive for ignorance was naturally her greatest pet peeve.

The pair entered the forest and continued walking for some time. The forest was as thick as ever and teeming with wildlife. There was an owl hooting from over the trees and the soft crackling sounds of leaves being walked on followed them, as if they were shadowed by curious creatures.

When Tom paused in a small clearing, Hermione followed suit, resting an arm against the trunk of a nearby tree. “How deep are we going in this time?” Some nights Tom liked to show her magic. Other nights he liked to share stories or lessons of what he had learnt from Dumbledore. Fewer nights still, he simply wanted to explore the forest - not that they had ever found anything.

“There are wards throughout this entire forest.” He had explained to her two nights before. “Can’t you sense them? They repel Muggles, leave them confused and frightened.”

“Of course I can’t,” Hermione had protested, offended. “I’m not a Muggle.”

“You are Muggle-born,” he had reminded her insistently. Her origins hadn’t been something to feel insecure about with Harry, but since meeting Tom, it became apparent to Hermione that most wizards didn’t feel any more kindly towards Muggles than the Muggles felt for their race, and that that prejudice possibly extended to Muggle-borns as well. “I can feel it too,” Tom had confessed to mollify her, a bitter smile playing at his lips. “But the magic isn’t infallible - it’s still very primitive.”

“Must be how McLaggen and the others like him get through,” Hermione remarked.

“Still, McLaggen must have incredibly strong willpower for a Muggle,” Tom postulated. When he saw the look of disbelieving disgruntlement on Hermione's face, he laughed aloud. “Just because he’s a buffoon doesn’t mean he can’t be stubborn. Most fools are.” In fact, Cormac was as stubborn as an ox and then some.

Tom’s utter indifference towards Cormac was both shocking and almost something to emulate. (It certainly only lent further credence to the general public opinion that Tom was above petty violence and drama.) His opinion of the younger man was clearly poor, but Tom didn’t share Hermione’s active ardor for the hunter.

But there was something inexplicable about Tom that made his apathy quite possibly worse than his attention - whether it be positive or otherwise. When Tom disregarded you, you felt terribly overlooked and neglected. Perhaps that was why Hermione had been so offended by his initial indifference. And perhaps that was also why so many of the girls consistently made fools out of themselves trying to win his attention, to catch his eyes even if just for only a moment. There was no reason anyone ought to feel that pressure around Tom, but nevertheless most people seemed to. There was simply something very powerfully appealing in being in Tom’s presence.

In the present, Tom was casting a short series of non-verbal spells, lifting his dark wand with several flourishes. “This is far enough.” He was guarding them from any would-be eavesdroppers or spies. “Nonverbal magic is difficult, but wandless magic is exponentially more challenging,” Tom reminded when he turned back to face her. “Accidental wandless magic - wish magic - is common, but always unintentional, hence ‘accidental’. Have you had any more successful attempts with wandless magic, accidental or otherwise?”

“No.” She had already told him of all the past incidents she could recall, of occurrences where she could cheat at her house chores or do little harmless things like snuffing out candle light with an idle thought or revive dying plants with a touch. Tom hadn’t been as impressed as Hermione had hoped he might be. But she didn’t want to mention the incident with Marietta Edgecombe - even if she picked up on the distinct sense that Tom would have approved.

“The universe bends if you will it. You must implicitly know that it will. If you doubt it, even for a moment, it shall doubt you too.” His arrogance was astounding - it had to be for him to believe that he could command the universe. But she couldn’t deny the results it yielded. But this also brought up the question of whether Tom’s self-confidence was the secret behind his success or if it was simply his innate magical ability that had enabled his confidence to grow as wildly and outrageously as it had.

Tom’s natural wandless magic surpassed hers even now. “I could make things move without touching them,” he recalled aloud. The wizard sounded as if he was speaking to himself; he had hardly even seemed to notice that she was listening. “I could make animals do what I wanted without training them. I could make very bad things happen to the people who wronged me. I could make them hurt if I wanted to.” A small smile appeared at his lips, as if brought on by whatever pleasant memories were currently floating around in his recollection. “I could also speak to snakes - they’ve always sought me out, even as a child, and whispered to me.”

His dark eyes turned back onto her. “Surely, a grown Muggle-born witch with no training, can accomplish at least one wandless spell. Try the fire charm, ‘Incendio’.” With a touch of his wand, he had wordlessly magicked a pile of kindling into existence before her feet.

It was all very unnerving, but Hermione still would have liked to have a go at Tom’s wand. Still, she made very many attempts before speaking up again. “Doesn’t it make more sense to start as a beginner now and then progress onto the more difficult areas of magic?” she tried to reason after innumerable failures to cast the charm. She was currently crouching on the ground; the small clump of dried leaves still sitting in front of her - she had hoped that some kindling might aid in the process and so far whether or not it had any bearing on her success or failure was unclear. Tom preferred a hands-off approach in instructing her; experimentation was naturally his favoured method of learning - even if she felt that it was done at the expense of her progress.

“Wands limit us.” Tom lifted his own to eye level, examining the yew wood critically. “They help to channel our magic, yes, but wands are European. There are many other magical cultures that apparently don’t use wands at all. I’d say they have the advantage.”

“So why do you use a wand then?” Hermione challenged, lifting her chin.

“It’s a crutch and one I have had been taught to rely on,” Tom answered bitterly, sneering vaguely down at her. “As a child, I had exceptional control over my magic. I didn’t know any spells and I didn’t have a wand, but it never mattered if the raw magical ability was enough.”

His dark eyes flashed. “Dumbledore tried to limit me. He withheld knowledge and taught me only what he was willing to share. It wasn’t until I left him that I was able to explore all the other realms of magic, and I haven’t been on my own for very long. There’s still much to learn - for both of us.” Tom laughed dryly, “As you are already well-aware, books on magic theory are very difficult to come by.” The cold scorn on his face didn’t detract from his good looks in any measure.

Seeing the entranced look on Hermione’s face, the thirst for more knowledge, Tom paused, righting himself. “Wands can ease you into basic magic, but they limit you to what’s taught in the books. With experimentation and independence, I truly believe you could accomplish so much more, Hermione.” He nodded to her, “Try again.”

Frowning doubtfully as she looked at Tom, feeling much like a guinea pig, Hermione still nodded reluctantly, turning back to look down at the kindling at her feet. “Incendio,” she said slowly, enunciating the word. It was unlike her last few attempts in which the word had been repeated impatiently and rapidly. “Incendio,” Hermione repeated again, struggling to focus. “Incendio.” She must have said it at least half a dozen more times before suddenly a small yellow spark had flickered into existence in the pile of dried leaves. That spark quickly grew to become a small orange flame, engulfing the dead plant matter in a weak fire.

In light of her success, Hermione quickly looked to Tom, an expectant look on her face, but his own was impassive and inscrutable.

“Very good.” Was all he finally said. “It’s a start.”

Still, her mouth curved into a small smile. Tom’s compliments and praises had always come easy, but his sweet words carried no real weight in town and she knew he meant what he said now, even as unemotional as his words were. “You can’t do any wandless magic at all?” she wondered aloud, hoping to take advantage of his brief lift in mood to learn more. Hermione often felt like a scavenger, seizing any opportunity she could to prod Tom into divulging more information - personal or academic.

“No, I can,” Tom conceded. “But it requires intense concentration, and it’s never as potent as using a wand, and directing it isn’t as easy as it used to seem. A wand keeps my magic focused and accurate.” He looked away into the black darkness of the trees surrounding them. As the inky black sky swallowed up the sun, dusk was already past them and it had become nighttime before she had even realised it. “Hermione,” he said suddenly. “Have you ever heard of the Elder Wand?” It was a rhetorical question.

She shook her head; a motion he didn’t see.

“It is one of the three Deathly Hallows, wizarding artefacts of fable.” He fingered the yew wand in his long, pale fingers. “It’s said that Death himself created the Elder Wand as a gift for the eldest of the three Peverell brothers. But that’s just myth - what’s more probable is that the Peverell brothers were just very talented wizards and the eldest brother created the wand himself.” His dark eyes locked onto Hermione. “The core is said to be thestral tail and its wood elder tree. I know if I was able to get my hands on the materials, I’d be able to replicate the original.”

Tom was clever, undeniably so, but Hermione had her doubts. Serious doubts. He was simply too ambitious. “Isn’t the wand you have now enough?”

She was also a little sore in the fact that she still didn’t even have her own wand while he was looking to craft a second, and an extremely prodigal one at that. Would Tom be willing to part with the wand he had now once he got hold of a more powerful successor? Would he even be satisfied then? Or would he seek out the other two Deathly Hallows at that point?

“The Elder Wand is special,” Tom insisted. His left hand had tightened around his yew wand, his black ring once again catching her eye - in contrast to his graceful hands, it was a bulky, clumsy-looking thing. “It’s powerful, said to be infallible wielded in duels. And it’s not just that, but it’s also said that any wizard who can collect all three Deathly Hallows - the wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak - will become the master of death.” There was a look of such wanting on Tom’s face, intense and fervent. She had never seen anyone want anything or anyone so intensely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank PrincessRosalean and jaydanime for leaving comments and everyone else who has continued to read and support this story. I'm getting busy since move-in day is approaching but I already have the next chapter written and I'm still trying to write ahead.


	8. Chapter 8

That morning Arabella Figg was dragged out of her home, kicking and crying.

After the late Mister Figg had passed, his widow had gained a reputation for certain eccentricities. She kept an alarming number of cats in her household, far more than were necessary to mouse a single house, and her disagreeable temper hadn’t done anything to endear her to her neighbours.

One such neighbour was Petunia Dursley. Nosy and strongly opinionated, the blonde woman saw herself as the local morality crusader. Her husband, Vernon Dursley, dutifully supported her in the accusations she levelled against Figg, as he did in all of her ventures. The couple was standing outside their home. Vernon wore the usual squinted look that made him look constipated, but Petunia was positively smug.

Hermione had visited the Dursley residence on one occasion in the past and never again. They were the typical English family; there was nothing too commendable to note but also nothing especially amiss either. But of course that was only because their treatment of Harry was largely kept out of the public eye. They treated their nephew as a servant and put him to live in a cupboard under the staircase. Their treatment of Harry had always struck Hermione as a great injustice but Harry had endured it silently, much as he did everything else. He was gone now, but she would never forget how the Dursleys had treated him, the orphan they had made such a public production out of generously bringing into their home. They could present themselves however they wished in public, but the truth would never be forgotten by her.

“I’m not a witch!” the little woman shrieked shrilly. She flailed in the arms of her captors, trying to flee back into her home. Her house was small and dark, nothing like the Augusta Longbottom’s large and fine home. Fear had warped Figg’s old, weathered face. She was still dressed in a white dressing gown, her tiny feet bare as she shakily kicked the air. The arresting men must have dragged her straight from her bed without even affording her a moment to gather her wits and change into something more presentable. Hermione highly doubted that it was because they thought they had anything to fear from the friendless, frail old woman. “Please!”

A sizeable number of townspeople had gathered to watch in the audience. Some had had advance knowledge of the arrest (Petunia Dursley had been talking up Figg’s oddities in the marketplace for days), while others were merely curious of the public spectacle. Either way, no one from either class made a move to help the batty old widow.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving the scene, Hermione crept over to join Tom, careful to avoid bumping into anyone else in the crowd. He was standing outside the home of one of her father’s regular patients, the black leather bag in hand. She hadn’t planned on seeing Tom so soon. It just so happened that they had both chanced upon the arrest as it was taking place.

She recognised most of the men in the arresting convoy. Diggle himself was among them, directing them with orders too quiet for her to make out, a head shorter than his peers.

As he stepped out of Figg’s home, a few steps behind the other men, Gregory Goyle’s hulking form was forced to duck to avoid colliding with the head of the door frame. Hermione had been wondering why he had lingered in the house behind the others when she spotted two struggling cats in his hands. He held them fast by the scruff of their necks, a sneer on his brutish face. It wasn’t unheard of for animals to be accused of witchcraft, especially the familiars of the accused witches themselves. Witches could take any form. Any witch could be taken to trial. Any witch could be burnt or drowned.

“Tom.” She gripped his arm instinctively, struggling to contain the horror she felt from presenting itself on her face. “Those poor animals,” she said softly. Hermione had always been especially partial to cats. She had once kept one as a pet herself in her girlhood. He had been a sweet thing with thick, ginger fur not unlike that of a lion. Her parents had forced her to give him up shortly after the Vane sisters were burned together for witchcraft. Cats had always been associated with the occult, and only barely tolerated to keep the mouse population at bay.

“This one scratched me,” Goyle was muttering to Crabbe, lifting up a hissing tabby cat. “The others ran away.” He stood a considerable distance away and yet his low voice was as clear to Hermione as if he was speaking beside her ear. The heavy-browed man had never properly learned to control the volume of his voice and always spoke in rough grunts.

“Don’t worry,” Tom whispered back, voice smooth, his lips hardly parting despite the clarity of his quiet words. “I sincerely doubt any of those cats are Animagus.”

“Tom.” She tugged at his arm sharply in rebuke. “That’s horrible.” She felt him shrugging beside her. “We should do something.” She looked back at the sorry scene, frowning deeply.

That caught his full attention. “They’re just cats, Hermione.”

“I meant for Figg too, Tom.”

“That is a terrible idea.” Not deigning to even humour her, Tom began walking away, forcing Hermione to stumble after him when their arms remained locked. Arabella Figg had already been taken away and most of the bystanders were beginning to disperse. To avoid being separated, she had to hurry to keep pace.

She didn’t start talking again until they were well away. “You haven’t even heard me out.” Hermione scowled, looking briefly back over her shoulder. No one was watching.

“I don’t have to; that premise is a terrible idea.” She knew immediately where they were going to: the oak tree in the meadow. Outside of the forest itself, it had become Tom’s favourite place to meet her. In the daytime it was difficult to be snuck up on, and the innocent, open space aroused little suspicion.

“So you would just let her die then?” She abandoned her grasp on his arm to cross her own arms, staring steely back at Tom.

“Hermione, you’re being unreasonable.” He looked exasperated, his dark eyes rolling up as if he would find support somewhere up in the clouds. Together they entered the open meadow. It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a bright yellow sun. Even the birds were singing. The lovely weather had been difficult to notice in light of the arrest. “What would you have me do? Kill all of the prosecutors? Her accusers? The witnesses? The judge and guards?”

“No.” Hermione insisted heatedly. She threw her hands out in frustration. “And, why is your first instinct murder?” she retorted. She pulled at her dress, tugging the pale-blue fabric down past her knees as she sat down in the shadow of the tree, her back to the town.

“Even if we were to break her free, that doesn’t change the fact that apparently your town thinks she’s a witch. They’ll just come for her again.” Tom sank down on the grass opposite of her, his back leaning against the tree. He threw the leather bag down beside him. Now their field of vision was nearly a full three-sixty degrees - any nosy intruders would be immediately spotted several feet away. “There’s no place to send her.” No place for a Muggle. “Regardless, she’s not your responsibility. You don’t even know her. Are you going do this for every poor soul who finds themselves in trouble? I think that’ll be too much - even for you.”

“Tom, you _know_ I don’t know as much about magic as you.” He smirked. “That wasn’t a compliment,” Hermione insisted hotly. “Tom, she needs your help. I know you can do something, so why don’t you? Surely you can think of something.”

He sighed, blinking languidly as he stretched his arms out above him, righting the tension in his shoulders. “The world’s a lot bigger than your little hamlet, Hermione,” he mused. “I’ve been here far too long. You may think this is awful, what’s going on, but you have no idea how often this happens throughout the rest of the continent. Injustices worse than this happen to good people all the time; it’s just a fact of life. After a while, you get used to it. Interfering usually just makes it worse for the very people you’re trying to help, or you’re just wasting your time for nothing. It will never end.”

She bit her lips, unsatisfied. He saw the stubborn look on her face and continued. “If that woman has even a drop of wizard blood, she’ll be fine. Haven’t I told you about Wendelin? She’s probably been through every kingdom in Europe and she’s escaped from the stake at least three dozens times by now.”

“ _She_ doesn’t though. She’s not a witch.”

“Then she’ll be exonerated.”

“You know how unlikely that is. It’s not how it goes.” She felt like throwing her hands in the air again. But she kept her hands arranged neatly in her lap this time. Tom wasn’t going to budge. Her mouth pouted. “Do you only care when someone’s a wizard? Are Muggles even people to you?”

Tom didn’t look at her; he didn’t have to. “Of course. What sort of question is that?”

“Do you even care about me as a person?” Hermione leaned forward, searching out his dark eyes. “You never showed any interest in me until you knew what I was.”

“So this is what this is about.” Tom muttered out a sardonic laugh. His gaze swung over to meet hers. “Your personal insecurity?”

“Stop twisting my words,” she demanded, her fists clenching and her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. But she released her hands just as quickly. “You know, I feel awful for never doing anything before,” Hermione confessed, trying a softer approach. “It’s just that - I feel like, we can actually do something now. Something good, you know?”

Maybe Tom was trying the same angle too because his hard expression had slackened. “Hermione, this is not going to change anything,” he spoke slowly. “We’ll just be risking our lives with no real endgame in mind. It’ll probably do Figg no good either.” He reached out to touch her fingers, his skin cool. “This place is awful, it has nothing to offer us. I’ve been here too long, and you’ve been here even longer - all by yourself.” His voice was soft, coaxing. “This town is no good, Hermione.”

“Tom?”

“My father has a manor in Yorkshire.” There was that same animated look in his dark eyes again. “There’s a Muggle village close by but they would never have to bother us. You could study magic in peace and I could continue my research.”

“What research, Tom?” He had never mentioned any such research - merchantry and medicine had just been a few of his many hobbies, hobbies that he was disgustingly and effortlessly talented at. “Not the Elder Wand again? Tom, you can’t be serious.”

He shook his head. “Everything, Hermione. Not just the Elder Wand. The Deathly Hallows, magical creatures, new spells, charms, and potions. You could work with me too. I know you’re a fast learner, you’ll have fresh ideas. We could make a change together. Make life easier for the wizards and witches like us.”

“Tom, you said those Deathly Hallows were fables,” she protested, refusing to be distracted. There was an uncomfortable ache in the pit of her stomach.

“That’s what everyone thought, but they’re real, believe me. Dumbledore and Grindelwald were searching for them. Grindelwald already found the wand.”

Suddenly a terrible sense of precognition swept over her. She knew why Tom had fell out with his old mentor. “Tom, you didn’t try to steal it, did you?” The steely look in his eyes, the stubborn line of his mouth told her the answer. “Tom, why?”

“Grindelwald was an extremist,” Tom proclaimed, looking away again. “He wanted to overthrow all the Muggle kings and establish a world of wizard supremacy.”

She barked out a laugh. “And that idea really doesn’t appeal to you?” She found that difficult to believe; an outright lie, in fact.

“Grindelwald envisioned himself as the benevolent overlord of Muggles and wizards alike. A king ordained not by divine right but by his own force of will. No, I don’t find the idea of being subservient to this man appealing,” Tom explained, his beautiful mouth twisted in disgust. “Dumbledore and Grindelwald weren’t exactly friends by the time Dumbledore took me under his tutelage. If I hadn’t tried to take it, Dumbledore would have.”

“So did he?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Tom’s jaw clenched. “Grindelwald’s been practicing dark magic decades since before I was even born, and Dumbledore never taught me anything remotely useful - he kept me ignorant and pilant. I probably never even stood a chance against Grindelwald.” Outside of false humility, she found it bizarre whenever Tom admitted to a weakness. Of course, even now he was trying to justify those shortcomings.

“You really have no idea what magic can do, Hermione. You never had the opportunity to learn. You were repressed all life, weren’t you?”

He swallowed, leaning in close. She managed to resist the impulse to shift back, away.

“The Muggles - your friends and family - they will never understand you,” he stressed. “But you already know that though, don’t you? You’ve known that for a long time.”

The self-assured look on his face, the insistence in his voice - it was infuriating. She was tired of being so easily read like one of her books.

“You may think what you like but you’re wrong, Tom,” Hermione interjected icily. “I know you don’t have the highest opinion of Muggles but they’re no different from us. It’s all circumstance - they’re frightened and confused. If it was the other way around, we would be the same. And I’d like to believe that I could keep an open mind - maybe they can too.”

“But it isn’t, is it? This is the way it is - you’re a witch and they’re Muggles.” Sighing imperceptibly, Tom went on to remark, “You’re a Muggle-born.” He shook his head, his dark eyes narrowing in exasperation. “You don’t - ” He cut himself off just as quickly. The passion with which he now spoke was riveting. “You’ve grown attached to them, I understand that. But there is a fundamental difference between wizards and Muggles. If you had more experience you’d understand that. You’ve only ever known one world. Let me show you the one you belong to.”

He fully placed his hand on hers. “A few nights ago I discovered the barrier separating the Muggle world from the rest of the forest.” At her puzzled look, he elaborated, “It’s like a secret entrance, probably related to the wards put up around the forest. It’s a split hawthorn tree - you only have to climb through the trunks to enter.” Tom smiled brilliantly, his hand squeezing hers, which remained limp in his grasp. “I didn’t go far but I saw fairies, Hermione. Real-life fairies. I bet there’s unicorns too. Sirens in the lakes and phoenixes in the trees,” he coaxed.

“I’m not a little girl, Tom.” Half-heartedly, she swatted his hand away. But she couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break out across her upturned mouth. What girl growing up hadn’t dreamt of fairies and unicorns? Her town life had always been colourless and entirely ordinary. Life was brutish and short at worst, and bland and slow at best.

“There’s probably at least a handful of wizards living in that forest,” Tom went on to speculate. “Quaint cottages, built up by magic, far away from your Muggle village.”

“Do wizards have their own towns?” Hermione wondered, ignoring his slight insult.

“Of course.” Tom looked almost offended by her question. “If Muggles can put up a few buildings close together, why can’t a wizard do the same?” Blinking, he admitted, “I’ve never visited any wizard-only towns, but the closest village might be Hogsmeade. In fact, I think if we went straight through the forest and rode on for a few days, we’d hit it. I know it’s just west of this place.”

Her mouth pressed together into a thin line. The thought was tempting. “But I can’t abandon my family,” Hermione reminded him. “And I can’t leave my friends behind.”

“Ginerva and Ronald Weasley?” Tom made a face.

“Don’t be cruel,” Hermione snapped. “They’re good people.” Against her better judgement, she admitted, “Besides, what if Harry comes back one day? He’d never know how to find me if I’m gone.”

“You don’t even know if he’s still out there,” Tom reminded her. “Why miss out on your life taking a gamble on bad odds?” Gritting his teeth, he ignored her glare, suggesting, “Why not leave town for only a little while then? See if you like it. If you don’t, then go home.”

“I can’t just pick up and leave whenever I feel like it, Tom. You make it sound so simple. You’re forgetting that I’m a girl.” It was common sense. “I belong to my father until I’m married and after that I’ll belong to my husband.” It was stifling. “I can’t become a merchant and travel as you do. I don’t have the same freedoms you do. If I just took off with you, I’m not sure that I’d be welcomed back at all. Don’t you know how it’ll look?” She looked at him through narrowed brown eyes. “I don’t imagine that it’s very different for the witches in your world.”

He was silent for a time, his eyes fixed on an invisible point off to the side of her. She was beginning to think that he had lost his wits when Tom suddenly looked back up at her, an intense conviction written on his face. “Marry me then. You’ll have the freedom to do whatever you want.”

“What? You’re crazy.” She gaped at him, hardly caring for how foolish she must have looked in the moment. “Where did an idea like that even come from, Tom?” Discomforted, Hermione shifted her legs, pressing her knees close to her chest. “We just met. We hardly have anything in common, aside from the one thing.”

“That’s not true.” Whatever angle he was going for, he was sticking to it. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re clever. You understand me better than anyone I’ve ever met - Muggle or wizard. If it’s a matter of love, then you should know that I don’t care that you’re a Muggle-born, I think I could really fall for you.”

“What?” She repeated numbly, shaking her head, her face stuck in a grimace. “Tom, don’t make such reckless promises just because you want me to go along with what you say. I hate hearing your flattery.” It was cruel - mostly because she often did want to believe his sugared words. “Besides.” Her voice steadied. “I don’t love you. I’m not even sure that I like you very much at all, in fact.” Shaking her head again, Hermione suggested, “Why don’t you just go by yourself? I know you’re dying to leave. You don’t need me for this.”

“I can’t leave you behind,” he confessed, still leaning forward.

“You’re confusing me, Tom,” Hermione stated firmly. She pushed her hand against his chest, to keep him at bay. “We haven’t even kissed. We’ve barely held hands. We’re just friends. Why would you make such an outlandish proposal now?”

“Not everything in life plays out like those love stories you like to read. Should I have read you poetry first? Brought you flowers?” Tom pulled away, looking cross. “I thought you liked me.”

She gaped at him. “So were you trying to be practical by proposing or are you still trying to manipulate me?” Hermione demanded, a little distraught. She felt her face heating up. Why was it so difficult with Tom? “I’m not one of your lovesick girls, Tom.”

His dark eyes flashed. “You’re not. You know that I’ve always liked you, Hermione, and I think that that is why you stood out to me.”

“I can’t believe that,” she refused flatly. “This just sounds like you’re trying to tell me whatever you think I want to hear.”

“You’re special,” he insisted. “I think I knew that, even before you followed me into the forest.” He leaned further away, his hands planting themselves on the grass behind him. Tom turned his handsome face up towards the sky, giving her a nice view of his jawline and exposed neck. (She looked away.) He squinted up at the clouds, suddenly standoffish again. “Believe me or don’t. But it’s true.”

“This is all too sudden for me.” Hermione stood up, her face turning away. “Go by yourself. You’re a grown man. Stop trying to play with my feelings.” Ignoring the burn of his stare, she stalked away. She didn’t have time to waste around in that meadow forever with Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful to everyone who commented - PrincessRosalean, Vivid_aly, Iridescine, Devlin085, and EMaz - your comments really encourage me and a lot of times they inspire me to focus more on certain aspects or characters of the story that I might not have given as much notice to before. Thank you to everyone else who left kudos or bookmarks. I just finished moving into the dorm today and I'll keep working on the story as I find time, although I already do have chapter nine written.


	9. Chapter 9

Ever since the ill-fated question she had been avoiding Tom. It was far easier than Hermione had expected. Probably because Tom was doing the same.

She knew why _she_ was avoiding him. But Hermione didn’t understand why Tom was avoiding her. He didn’t seem like the type to shy away from anything. If he had only put his mind to it, she knew that he could have found multiple opportunities to corner her over the course of the previous several days and nights. But it wasn’t that she was hoping he would have done that; she only knew that he could have. His offer hadn’t tempted at her in the least, she was sure of that.

But nevertheless, Hermione was willing to admit that she was a _little_ worried. Was he really that cross with her after all? Had she really hurt him? Broken his heart? That was difficult to believe - in fact, it was even laughable to think that Tom could possibly ever have his heart broken by a girl. But it was hard to not wonder and speculate when she was alone in bed at night trying desperately to fall asleep. Maybe it was easy for Tom to use people, but she got attached to them, and she had gotten attached to him - as frustrating as he was.

When Tom wasn’t sent off on appointments for her father, she often saw him in Ginny’s company, occasionally with Bones and Jones in tow. He was disgustingly charming as always, smiling his little half-smiles and uttering quiet, clever remarks. It was aggravating watching him getting fawned over, knowing that no one else realised just how lowly his regard for them were as Muggles.

But even as they ignored each other, the opportunities to see one other - once appreciated by both parties - remained.

Hermione was descending the steps onto the ground floor when her heart caught in her throat. Dedalus Diggle was sitting at the table with her father and Tom, laughing at something Tom had said. Whatever reason Diggle could possibly have for associating with her father and his “assistant” she didn’t care to find out.

It wasn’t very well-mannered but Hermione had fully intended on slipping out of the house unnoticed when Tom’s dark eyes turned on her, prompting two other pairs to follow.

“Hermione,” her father spoke up, his matured voice measured and decisive. There was a reproachful creasing in his brow - he hadn’t missed the way she had been making for the door. “This is our guest, Dedalus Diggle.” ‘Come and greet him’ was the implicit order. “This is my daughter, Hermione.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Hermione kept her eyes purposefully fixed on the small man. Somehow he really looked even less intimidating up close.

“Hello, my dear,” the little man said. He held his purple hat in his hands. “I understand it that you help your father and Tom with the practice from time to time?” He seemed mild, even harmless, much like an absent-minded but well-meaning uncle. The mental comparison had her blanching. This man made blood money off the persecution and execution of innocent Muggles and wizards, even if he believed he was doing God’s work.

“Yes, that’s right.” She stood uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It used to be the other way around - with Tom helping her and her father.

“What a well-behaved child,” Diggle chuckled, turning to her father. He soon forgot about her however, as he returned to whatever they had been discussing before she arrived: witches marks. He was inviting Father and Tom to come and examine Arabella Figg. “I just think it would be prudent to have a medical professional’s testimony. I know some of your neighbours don’t take my title as the Witchfinder General very seriously,” he remarked cheerfully. “They think I’m acting out of self-interest, but I assure you it has always been God in my mind. My father was a preacher, you see. In fact, my mother was the daughter of a preacher. The affinity for God runs in my family.”

He rambled on and on. Her father’s face remained neutral, but Hermione knew him well enough to recognise the glazed look coming over his eyes. Tom, on the other hand, was listening intently and showing all the physical signs of it: leaning forward, nodding sympathetically, and so forth. But when it came to reading Tom one could never rely on his body language or words to tell the whole story. Nothing about Tom could be taken at face value.

“I’m going out,” Hermione muttered softly, barely garnering more than a second glance from the men.

“Ah, yes, goodbye, my dear,” Diggle smiled at her before returning to the conversation of witch marks and all of its lesser known intricacies. He was explaining enthusiastically, “Witch marks aren’t as straightforward as the common people think; it’s not a hookey science. Practitioners don’t make things up as they go along. It’s a delicate process, you see...”

Her excuse made, she didn’t wait around to be stopped and quickly exited the room, making her way to the front door. When she opened the door, Hermione almost instinctively closed it again, disturbed to see Cormac McLaggen waiting outside. “What do you want?” she asked through the partially ajar door, her tone harsher than intended.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” Cormac answered quickly, displaying his empty palms in a gesture of innocence. “I saw Diggle coming here with Tom. I just wanted to check if you were alright.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You thought Diggle came here to arrest me? Why?” A little more concerned now, “Why would anyone think I have anything to do with witches?” 

“No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that,” Cormac shook his head empathetically. “I was just worried,” he emphasised.

“Well, thanks,” Hermione told him flatly, stepping out fully from behind the door. Tom, if no one else, was bound to notice if she remained halfway through the door for much longer. She turned the lock behind her before crossing her arms across her chest. “Did you need anything else?” She frowned, noticing that he made no move to leave.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you too,” Cormac reminded her slowly. He was behaving uncharacteristically meekly - his usual swagger and overbrimming confidence absent. “Listen, Hermione.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I know you said it had nothing to do with Potter, that you don’t like me very much in general - ” There was a strained look on his face. “ - but I have a hard time believing that, and please hear me out.” The plea had been uttered suddenly and quickly when she had finally made the move to leave, to go around him. “I _never_ told anyone,” Cormac reminded her, voice quiet. He pushed on despite the look of anger he must have seen on her face. “I never told anyone that you were there. I never did.”

With a long sigh, Hermione admitted quietly, “I know.” Her mouth pursed. “And I appreciate that, Cormac.” She ignored the look of gratification on his broad face. “But this isn’t about my guilt or whatever you may think it is.” That wasn’t an outright lie, not when there was some truth involved. “I just don’t think I can give you what you want,” she finished awkwardly. She was eager to get very far away from Cormac McLaggen as soon as possible - before anyone saw her speaking to him. Not that they would ever put two and two together - Harry Potter had been largely forgotten.

“I just want to be friends,” he insisted.

“That’s not what you said before.”

“I was trying to be honest then,” Cormac insisted, more heatedly this time. “I had to let you know how I felt, at least. And, now I know how you feel about that.” He grimaced. “And I’ll never say anything like that again. Would that make you happy?”

“Not really,” Hermione shrugged coldly. Sighing, she relented. “Fine. We can be friends. Now, what would this even entail?”

“Just call me by my name,” Cormac said, almost a plea. At the skeptical look on her face, he added, “Talk to me sometimes. Acknowledge me. Really, that’s all I want.”

“Fine.” She blinked, still unmoved. “Are we done here?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. She weaved around him, hurrying away.

* * *

Feeling a little lonely, Hermione had revisited the oak tree in the meadow. She had an older book which had already been read and reread many times propped open on her lap, but she hardly even remembered which particular book this one was. She hadn’t read much in the time since she had met Tom, hadn’t much time or motivation for reading, and now she was finding it surprisingly difficult to get back into the swing of it. Especially because she kept mulling over him.

And in the rare times when she wasn’t thinking about Tom, she was thinking of Harry - silently damning Cormac in her mind for bringing him back to the forefront of her mind. She had never told anyone - for dualling obvious and complicated reasons - that she had followed Harry and Dudley and Cormac into the forest. That she had saw the initial attack. That she had ran. She had turned back for Harry, but too little too late, yeah?

So when Ginny approached her, football on her hip, Hermione was grateful for the reprieve. She shut her book immediately, sitting up straighter and wiping the miserable look from her face. Ginny had come alone.

“I’m going to play a game with the boys.” The red-head looked smilingly down at her. “Do you want to come watch?” Laughing, she added, “I know you don’t like football but Lavender and her friends will probably be there too.” Usually the idea would have been staunchly unappealing, but Ginny had always been an excellent judge of Hermione’s moods. The younger girl always knew where and when to seek her out when she was feeling lonely or sad.

“They’re letting you play with them?” Hermione lifted a skeptical brow.

Ginny was probably the only girl in town who knew how to play football in more than a theoretical sense. Growing up, she had often tagged along with her brothers to watch their games, but they had consistently forbidden her from the sport. However, even they were unable to keep Ginny from practicing on her own. Only Neville and Hermione knew about this secret hobby - Neville, because Ginny had enlisted him to train with and play against her, and Hermione, because she had once stumbled upon the pair together in the midst of a game.

“They’re going to,” Ginny told her confidently. Her smile appeared a little too tight at the corners.

“If you say so.” But Hermione stood up, tucking her book under her arm. “Who’s playing?” She walked closely beside Ginny, picking her way through the outburst of wildflowers growing around the outskirts of town. It was only a short distance from here to the open field where the boys liked to play, where the browning grass was well-trodden by their feet.

“Ron, of course,” Ginny answered. “Fred and George.” She was starting a count of fingers on one hand. “Michael Corner. Dean Thomas. A few other boys probably, I don’t know.” A pause passed before she added hesitantly, “And Tom will be there too.”

“I didn’t realise he played,” Hermione commented. Her heart quickened in her chest.

“I didn’t know either until he told me, but I can definitely see him playing.” Both girls were mentally visualising Tom’s long legs and lean build, willingly or otherwise. “Actually, I invited him to play,” Ginny went on to admit. “He’ll be team captain. Ron’s the other captain.”

“Huh, team captain already? He’s popular,” Hermione commented pointlessly. She looked up as the sounds of the boys’ chatter became more and more audible.

“Oi!” Fred hollered, snapping to attention as soon as the two girls came into view. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with his younger twin. “There you are, Ginny.”

“What took you so long?” George added. “You were just asked to get the ball.”

The twins’ exclamations had attracted the attention of the rest of the boys - of which not previously mentioned by Ginny were: Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, and Ernie Macmillan. They were all standing with Ron and Dean, and had been laughing at one of the former’s jokes before Ginny arrived on the field.

A little further away, Tom was speaking quietly with Michael Corner. Standing close by were Lavender, Susan Bones, Megan Jones, and Lisa Turpin - all of whom were glancing frequently at Tom and Michael and chattering amongst themselves. Tom had glanced only briefly at Ginny and then lingered on Hermione for a moment before abruptly turning his attention back to his private conversation. His expression remained unchanged throughout the entire silent exchange.

“I was bringing Hermione to come and watch,” Ginny explained. She threw her long, red hair back over her shoulders. “You couldn’t find a tenth player after all?” Her brown eyes swept over the assorted group of boys.

Neville was watching her attentively.

“Nope,” Ron shook his head. “Nott bailed. Hey, toss the ball to me.” He held his arms out to catch.

“Okay, let me play then,” Ginny said. She had spoken the request casually but her simple words had the effect of rendering the boys staring slack-jawed at her as if she had declared that she might like to go without clothes from henceforth. “You need to even out the teams anyways.” She shrugged.

“What?” Ernie laughed after a short time of silence, looking thoroughly confused.

“Ginny, you can’t play,” Ron insisted upon recovery. “I thought we established this a long time ago. Bill, Charlie, and Percy all thought it was a bad idea.”

“Well, Bill and Charlie aren’t here now, are they?” Ginny pointed out. “Besides, when have you ever cared about what Percy thought? He didn’t even like to play football - he only watched.” She clutched the ball tighter. “Why can’t I play?”

“It’s not exactly safe,” George spoke up gently. “It can get pretty rough, Ginny.” He knocked a fist against his thigh for emphasis.

“Yeah, what if you get injured?” Fred added in agreement. “Mum will freak if you get hurt. Then she’ll hurt us.” His eyes widened.

“I think Ginny can hold her own,” Neville spoke up. His voice was quiet but firm, drawing surprised looks from his peers. “We play together sometime,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “She’s good. Probably better than you, Ron.”

Ron’s face reddened. “Hey,” he barked out, snapping to look at the other boy. “I’m still better than you.” He didn’t look very angry at Neville though, just embarrassed and still very confused. “It doesn’t matter though, Ginny.” Shaking his head, he turned back to his younger sister. “Even good football players get injured. Boys - they all shove, they aim for the knees; they’re foul.”

The other girls had been murmuring amongst themselves, none speaking up in support of or to detract from Ginny’s argument. But Lavender Brown had been nodding silently whenever the youngest Weasley spoke.

Hermione didn’t know what to say either. She wanted to support Ginny, but she really didn’t care for football either way. She knew enough to understand how the game worked, but that was about as far as her interest in the sport went. She couldn’t personally relate to Ginny’s determination to play, but she understood it as a principle.

“You’re a boy too, Ron,” Ginny pointed out. “Are you going to try to break my knees?” She stared hard back at her brother.

“Hey, I’m just trying to keep you safe.” Ron held out his palms defensively.

“This back and forth is getting us nowhere,” Tom spoke up impatiently. His voice was sharp and authoritative. “I’ll take Ginny for my team, Ron, thanks.”

The Weasley boys visibly balked. Neville looked pleased. Corner seemed indifferent, while the rest of the boys still looked confused.

“Don’t say that you were going easy on me when you lose,” Ginny grinned victoriously at her brothers. “And don’t start crying either.” She left Hermione’s side, almost skipping over to Tom’s side. She threw the ball hard at Ron.

Ron caught it roughly, mouth caught in a frown. He stared at Ginny and Tom for a long moment before he seemed to realise the futility of continuing to argue. “Fine, let’s pick the rest of our teams. I choose George.” That won him a dirty look from Fred.

“Ah, you are a wise man, Ron,” George clapped him on the shoulder. For all of his mildness, George did have a narrow edge over Fred in terms of gameplay.

Hermione slowly walked over to stand with the other girls as they gathered at the sidelines. She didn’t know Lisa Turpin very well, even less than she knew Bones or Jones, so she stood by Lavender.

“Ron’s going to win,” Lavender remarked quietly, a look of resolute pride on her face. Her blue eyes followed the boys’ movements as they sorted themselves into teams.

“Tom and Ron haven’t even finished picking yet.” Hermione glanced at Lavender in puzzlement. That and because she had gotten so accustomed to everyone naturally siding with Tom in all matters.

Lavender shook her head, stubborn in her belief in Ron.

Shrugging the comment off, Hermione turned her attention back to the boys. Michael Corner was Tom’s second pick, followed by Dean and Neville. Fred, Seamus, and Ernie all joined Ron.

The resulting match was just as rough and violent as Ron had predicted. Initially Ron’s teammates had taken care to play gently with Ginny, but after she had scored a goal or two, that mentality had been quickly thrown out the window. Soon Seamus was outrightly swearing and cursing as he struggled with Ginny for control of the ball. However, this only pleased her, and tinges of red began to colour her freckled cheeks.

The game ended in a narrow victory for Ron. Tom’s team’s performance was less than stellar, with he and Ginny having to carry much of the rest of the team. Michael Corner was evidently a disappointment in Tom’s eyes, because although he still treated the other boy civilly, Hermione had not missed the raw look of disgust he had sent in the other boy’s direction when no one was watching after Michael had fallen flat on his face trying to stop Ron from scoring the winning points.

“Heh.” Ron looked across at the other team - Dean looked annoyed and Neville was panting. Lavender was already on his arm. (When had she left Hermione’s side?) He touched a hand to his face. “Whoa? Am I crying? No? Huh, funny that.”

“Oh, Ron, you’re such a sore winner,” Lavender scolded. But she couldn’t resist beaming at her fiancé. 

But Ginny was smiling too, just happy to have played. Tom stood beside her, an arm stretched out to help Michael back to his feet.

“Congratulations, Ron.” Tom patted firmly Michael on the back before turning to Ron, extending his hand for a shake.

“Good game,” Ron agreed, accepting the gesture. He had never truly forgiven Michael for his pursuit of Ginny. “I want you for my team next time, Tom.”

Tom laughed, shaking his head in denial. “We have to try to keep the odds fair somehow, Ron.” Looking to the others, he suggested, “Should we visit the tavern? Drinks on me.” That roused an appreciative murmur from the group.

“Oh, I wish I could join you but I have to go help my mother at the shop,” Lavender expressed apologetically. The shop was technically closed on Sundays, but like most townspeople Lavender and her family returned to work after church service ended.

Ginny groaned suddenly. “That reminds me, I forgot; I have to go see Augusta. I’m already late.” This elicited looks of sympathy from all the girls. Like Hermione, they had heard the stories of how hard Augusta rode Ginny. If the pay wasn’t as fine as it was and if she hadn’t gotten the job on Tom’s recommendation, they all expected that Ginny would have made her escape long ago.

“Ginny,” Neville spoke up. He smiled indulgently at her. “Why don’t you take a break today? I’ll take care of Grandmother.”

“Neville, are you sure?” Ginny was trying to disguise it, but her delight was obvious.

He nodded, his blue eyes encouraging. “Yeah, I was wanting to talk to her anyways. You go have fun with the others.”

“Oh, thank you, Neville,” Ginny exhaled sharply in relief.

“Michael, Lisa, and I already have plans with Terry and Wayne,” Ernie was saying in the background.

After thanking Neville some more, Ginny had broken away from Tom to stand closer to Hermione, whispering in her ear. “You’re coming with us, right?” When Hermione failed to immediately answer, she added, “Please? I don’t want to be stuck with just Megan and Susan. Besides, you shouldn’t be cooped up in your room so much.”

“You’ll have your brothers and Tom,” Hermione whispered back.

“Yes, but that’s not the point.” Ginny sounded exasperated. “What’s with you and Tom anyways?”

“Let’s not talk about that right now,” Hermione advised.

“Come with us and I won’t,” Ginny threatened her cheekily.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione nodded gingerly. She bent down to pick up the book she had set down during the game.

“Alright, let’s go.” Tom was looking over their diminished group. Ernie, Michael, and Lisa had already left together, and Neville was escorting Lavender back to her mother’s shop which was on route to his own home.

“I’ll see you later!” Ginny waved to Neville and Lavender before hurrying after Tom, having grasped Hermione’s hand and tugging her after. Hermione followed more slowly, reluctant to walk so closely to Tom. But it didn’t matter because he hardly noticed her and was more interested in talking to Ron. And of course, Bones and Jones had formed a tight escort around Tom, keeping the other girls at bay. Fred and George hung at the back of the group with Dean and Seamus, laughing over their favourite choice moments from the game.

The laughter and chatter died down when they came into town, swallowed up by a strange, thick atmosphere. All the adults looked sober and even the younger children seemed subdued. While the rest of their group looked around in confusion, Tom continued on as if oblivious. Feeling as dazed as they were, the group was content to follow Tom in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you PrincessRosalean, Jaydanime, EMaz, and thewinnowingwind for leaving comments on the last chapter, and thank you to everyone else who read or left kudos. The first week of this semester started and I've been really busy but I'll try my best to get the next chapter posted in a timely manner, I'm really grateful for the continued support.


	10. Chapter 10

Percy Weasley stood outside the tavern, his foot tapping rapidly. He was looking about him, a strained expression on his pale face. But he immediately righted himself at the sight of the group, looking something like a pigeon in the way of his rigid movements. “There you are.” He tried to look through Tom to get to the younger Weasleys, but in the end he had to physically weave around Tom when the taller man didn’t move aside.

“What are you doing? You should have come straight home.” Percy looked exasperated as usual. “How long was that game?” His blue eyes narrowed, freckled nose wrinkling. He looked between the twins and Ron, either oblivious to or outrightly ignoring the effect his words had on the younger boys: eyerolls and sighs.

“And you, Ginny,” he turned sharply onto his sister. He didn’t comment on her exerted look - ruffled red hair and a thin layer of sweat. “I thought you were at the Longbottoms’, I was going to come bring you home.” Percy blinked stiffly, shaking his head as he realised, “Why _aren’t_ you at the Longbottoms?”

“Neville gave me the day off.” Warily, Ginny looked back at their friends - all of whom were equally at a loss - before meeting Percy’s eyes. Her brows furrowed. “What’s going on? What’s gotten you so worked up?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Percy looked around furtively before ushering them into the building. His hands were tense in the brief moment that he had touched Hermione’s shoulders.

The tavern was relatively empty. The room was dimly lit and there were only a few patrons. Sitting on the other side of the tavern, they were hunched over their food and drinks, faces turned away from the entrance. Audrey Weasley was waiting on several of them, serving trays in hand. She was still in the early stages of pregnancy and casted several worried glances towards her husband. But she disappeared into the kitchen without approaching Percy or the others.

Fred and George slid into one of the unoccupied booths, Seamus and Dean following on the opposite end. Ginny stood beside Tom at one of the tables. While Ron and Hermione also elected to remain standing, clustering around Ginny.

“Are you going to tell us the big news or not? We’re all sitting down now if that was what you were waiting for, Perce.” Fred spoke lightly, choosing to be impatient rather than frightened.

“Must be really, really bad news,” George remarked to his twin.

Shooting the twins a disgruntled look, Percy sighed. “One of the guests was found dead in his room.” That familiar feeling of dread was creeping over Hermione again when Percy looked at her. “Hermione, your father was called in to examine the body. He hasn’t come yet, but we think it was a natural death.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Dean spoke up. He exchanged a concerned look with Seamus.

“That traveler was Dedalus Diggle.” His grave reveal largely received blank looks.

Hermione snuck a glance at Tom. The wizard’s true face was inscrutable - all she saw was a mirror image of the concern and reserve on their peers’ faces. He didn’t look back at her, his dark eyes fixed on Percy.

“Who?”

Ron shot Fred a dirty look. “Bloody hell, you helped the man carry his luggage up to his room. How do you not remember him?”

“Well, I remember him _now_ ,” Fred protested. “He was a very poor tipper,” he added, tone scandalous, hushed. Fred had to duck suddenly when Percy leaned over to smack him across the head, barely missing him by a hair.

Snorting as she watched the petty violence between her brothers, Ginny spoke up, “He was the witch hunter, remember?”

“The one who arrested Figg,” Seamus recalled aloud. “You don’t think she really cursed him, do you?” His eyes looked over the faces of their group, his pink tongue darting out to lick nervously at his chapped lips.

“She’s an old woman,” Hermione protested half-heartedly, feeling multiple pairs of eyes turn on her. “She’s not capable of such a thing.”

“Percy,” Tom spoke calmly. His voice was even and unemotional. “When was the body discovered?”

“Just a few hours ago. And we have no idea how long he’s been dead - just sometime between today and yesterday. There’s no fool-proof way of knowing for sure, at least none we’re aware of,” Percy admitted. “He probably could have died early last night for all we know - Fleur was the one who found him.”

“Is she alright?” Ron spoke up seriously, suddenly looking very concerned.

“She’s fine - just shaken.”

Tom subtly looked over their group, his face neutral. But when his gaze swept over her, he met Hermione’s eyes for the first time in days. He held her skeptical stare for a long moment, his own unflinching.

Hermione looked away first. “Percy,” she spoke slowly. “You know people in town. Influential people.” It was a note of pride - to Percy - to know important people. “Do you know what this might mean for Figg?” Her fingers twitched; Hermione only just managed to resist demonstrating any visible nervous impulses.

“It’s too early to tell,” Percy shook his head. He had sunken down into one of the empty chairs nearby when his blue eyes suddenly lit up. “There’s your father now. Mister Granger, sir!” He shot back up from his seat.

“Thank you for coming.” Percy had strode away from them, immediately shaking hands with the doctor, his handshake too enthusiastic. But Father wasn’t alone - Bill Weasley and the sheriff stood behind him. Percy’s attempt to shake hands with Sheriff Moody went rebuffed.

“You should go with him,” Ginny murmured quietly. Hermione glanced at her. It was not immediately clear as to whom she was addressing - Hermione or Tom. “Both of you,” Ginny clarified. “He’ll need you, right?”

Hermione hestianted. Her medical knowledge was fairly rudimentary and she had never taken much of an interest in this especially morbid part of her father’s job, but when Tom immediately left to join the other men she found herself following suit on impulse.

Father nodded to them both. Given how much independence he had always afforded to Hermione growing up, it unsurprising that he would find little issue involving them in the examination.

“Which room is it then?” Moody spoke up, his aged voice gruff as usual. He was a frightening-looking man; he had lost an eye in an old war, a foot to infection, and a sizeable chunk of his nose at some mysterious point in his long lifetime. Hermione had never liked him - mainly because she had gotten the sense that he didn’t like her much either.

“Third floor. Let me show you the way.” Percy was quick to volunteer. He nodded briefly to his older brother once before turning away, leaving Bill to go see to their younger siblings.

When they had arrived on the third floor, standing outside the room in question, Percy held the door open, following in last. There was a distinct smell of trapped sourness that tempted Hermione to gag.

Moody scanned the room, a grim look further darkening his already stern features. “Maybe you’d better wait outside,” he remarked, still looking around the room. It was not so much a suggestion as an order. “Too many people in a sensitive scene will be detrimental to an investigation.”

Percy’s face fell. He seemed to be considering arguing for a moment. But only for a moment. As soon as Moody’s remaining eye flickered towards him, Percy quickly excused himself and exited the room, leaving the door partially ajar.

Tom shut the door close without a word, not following Percy back outside.

Like Tom, Hermione ignored Moody’s pointed words. Carefully making her way across the floor, she joined Moody on the other side of the room.

Half-hidden behind the bed was the corpse of Dedalus Diggle, cold and dead on the wooden floorboards. His face was turned away from them, towards the corner of the room.

No move to touch him was made until her father approached, stooping down on his knees. The doctor frowned, but said nothing as he examined the corpse.

Hermione stretched her neck forward to catch a glimpse before quickly pulling back.

Her father remarked, equally disturbed, “I’ve never seen such a look on anyone’s face - dead or alive.”

“You must have not seen very much in your lifetime,” Moody scoffed ruefully.

“He must have seen something truly horrible before he died,” Hermione remarked softly to herself. Diggle’s skin was a ungodly shade of white. His face was contorted in a silent ‘o’, fear lines etched deeply into his skin. His hair was wild and his mouth leaked a dried trail of yellow.

“But are there any injuries on his body?” Tom remained standing on the other side of the room, peering at the scene from a comfortable distance. “Anything to actually suggest foul play?”

“No,” Father answered after a short time. He shook his head, rising back up to his feet.

“That doesn’t immediately rule out the possibility of internal injuries or poisoning,” Moody reminded them through a growl. “An autopsy should still be performed.”

“The doctor’s time is limited, Moody,” Tom pointed out calmly. He finally joined them, walking over on languid strides. He looked down at the cold body, remarking, “He looks like he was clutching his arm when he died. There’s more vomit by the bed stand.” He shrugged dispassionately, black hair partially obscuring his eyes. “It looks like a standard heart attack.”

“A heart attack?” Moody barked. At this point most people would have averted their eyes or backed down but Tom only held Moody’s hard stare, a dark brow raised. “You think he would have had a heart attack at a time like this? When he was _just_ about to persecute the witch? He wasn’t very old at all, but he was a man of God. His death was murder. I don’t know how it could be more plain for you.”

“You think Figg cursed him? All the way from her cell? Under constant surveillance?”

“The guards are only men. They have their lapses,” Moody growled. He poked his forehead with a thick finger. “Witchcraft isn’t a clear-cut evil, boy. Satan can take any route to the mind and heart.” He looked to Doctor Granger, searching for his agreement when Tom spoke up again.

“You can’t just pull accusations out of thin air, there has to be some basis,” Tom scoffed. “Figg’s involvement sounds like a stretch. Bad luck - accidents happen. Diggle’s heart must have been weak. People die everyday.”

“Bringing a case to court would be a trying time for anyone, even in the best of circumstances,” Father slowly pointed out, his face carefully neutral. “It’s stressful for all parties involved.”

“The timing is still awfully suspicious,” Moody insisted. “What harm would an autopsy do?”

“The harm would be in its waste of time and resources.” Tom replied sharply. “The Creeveys’ youngest son has a fever - the last thing this town needs is another outbreak of plague.” His dark eyes were unrelenting. “But fine. Order the autopsy.” Tom must have been losing his edge, if his temper was surfacing as quickly as it did now.

“If it’s a standard heart attack, then it’s just a heart attack. It’d be inhumane and cruel to punish Figg for actions outside of anyone’s control,” Hermione spoke up firmly. She looked to her father for support. “Is an autopsy necessary or not? From your professional viewpoint?”

Father’s face was thoughtful and and enigmatic. It was difficult for her to gauge his opinion, but it hardly mattered because he had apparently already made up his mind. “I have neither the time nor the cause to perform an autopsy.” He shrugged, going on to explain, “If his death was the product of witchcraft, there will likely be no marks on his body to indicate so. The most we can do is continue to interrogate Figg.”

Hermione immediately schooled her features when she saw that Moody was glowering at her. He remained squinting at her even after. “Did you have any sort of relationship to Figg?” he demanded outrightly.

“What are you implying?” Father cut in waspishly, looking defensive now. “My daughter had no association with that woman.” Thoroughly exasperated, he shook his head. “Tom, Hermione - we’re leaving now.” Before Moody could get another word out, he insisted, “ _I’ll_ alert the undertaker.”

Hermione went to her father’s side. She took a deep breath, looking back at Moody. “I had no relationship to Arabella Figg,” she assured him firmly. “I simply don’t want to see an innocent woman sent to death on the sole basis of circumstance.” She stared back, brown eyes hard, determined not to look away first. She had picked up the underlying sense that to do so would only cement Moody’s belief that she was suspect. She could only wonder why Moody singled her out at all. It didn’t feel very fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I've been very busy, but this still remains a priority for me.
> 
> Just wanted to thank PrincessRosalean, Gamer, EMaz, Kaja, and The Riddle for commenting! Really means a lot to me~
> 
> Shameless self-promotion, but I recently made a Fanfiction.Net account and I cross-posted this story over there. I've also recently started writing one-shots for ASOIAF.


End file.
